Forbidden
by flowerpicture
Summary: Ste's getting married after a whirlwind romance to a charming Irishman he met one night in a gay bar. But then he meets his fiancé's oldest friend and best man—Brendan Brady. Complete!


**AN: Neither Brendan nor Ste have any kids in this. There's no particular reason to tell you as it has no relevance to this story, but I thought I should mention it in case you get halfway through and think, "Hang on, where are the kids?" Anyway, hope you enjoy. I know it's a hackneyed plot found in all forms of media a million times, but it's one I've wanted to write for Stendan for a long time. :)**

**It's also kind of how I imagine Brendan to be as an adult if he wasn't sexually abused as a child? IDK. His dad was a dick but there wasn't any abuse in his childhood. Hopefully it still feels like him, just a different flavour of him.**

**This fic is dedicated to Tessa/Love Out Of Lust, whose support and encouragement has helped me rediscover my love of writing. Love you!**

::: :::

**One**

_You are cordially invited to the union of Steven Hay and Connor Murphy…_

Ste's been sat here for an hour stuffing these things into envelopes. Over two hundred of them in total. He's got a papercut, and he's got a bit of a headache, and there's a chance he's a little bit grumpy.

He's only recognised about eight names on these invitations.

It had been a bit of a shock, when he presented Connor with his little list before they went to the printers, and then Connor countered with his own list that filled four pages of A4.

"Do you actually know every single person on that list?" Ste asked him, incredulous, to which Connor had replied, quite simply, "Yes."

And then Ste's idea of a small, intimate wedding had suddenly been smothered, and now it's become the social event of the season.

Because Connor knows people. Connor _is known_ by people. He's a name; he has a reputation. It comes with being rich, with being powerful, with having your money date back generations but not being defined by it, because he's made his mark on his own standing.

Connor's bastard of a cousin, a wiry dick by the name of Cormack, had taken Ste aside one evening not so long ago, when he and Connor had first decided to get married. Taken Ste aside and into a bathroom, drunk out of his mind and voice slurring. Leaned into his space and breathed whiskey-scented words onto his face.

"There's no way you're good enough for him, kid."

Ste had rightly told him where to go, and they'd had a bit of a scuffle which—embarrassingly—Connor's aunt had to break up, but Cormack's words filter into his brain often, too often for him to ignore.

He's just a council estate scally, and he's yet to figure out why Connor's chosen him.

It's been the very definition of a whirlwind romance, so much so that Ste's barely had chance to get his feet back on the ground. He met Connor six months ago in a gay bar, an upmarket gay bar he usually avoided through fear of standing out, but to which Doug had taken him for a treat. Ste had been at the bar, and this man had crowded in close, all tall and blond and charismatic. Bought Ste a drink, took him onto the dance floor. Said he was there for his friend's leaving party, that the friend had just left and now he was looking for something else to do.

There was no doubt in Ste's mind that he was that _something else_.

Connor had taken Ste back to his place, a swanky penthouse apartment the likes of which Ste had only ever seen on TV, and they'd fucked wildly and with abandon three times before dawn. Ste's plan was to leave the next morning, but Connor insisted on taking him out for breakfast, then for dinner, and two weeks later Ste realised he was in a relationship with the man.

Connor didn't seem to mind that Ste lived in a scummy little flat, or that he worked in the kitchen of a local restaurant, or that he had nothing to his name but a loud mouth and impressive bedroom skills. He took Ste as he was, and he showed him his world, full of bright lights and money and expensive champagne, business deals that often felt a little shady. Connor works in entertainment, something to do with models, but Ste's never really figured out how he has so much money, because as far as he knows, Connor doesn't touch his family's fortune. Says he's always wanted to stand on his own two feet, whatever methods necessary, and to Ste's mind those methods are none of his concern.

Four months later Connor proposed, and the next day he gave Ste the keys to an empty shop he'd bought in the village, and a blank cheque for the refurb to make it into a deli. Then days later he took Ste into Nancy Osborne's old flat and told him he'd bought it for them, and now not only does Ste have a wealthy, gorgeous fiancé, he also has his own business and a beautiful home, when just over two months ago all he had was a flat he could barely pay the rent on, and a boyfriend he kept expecting to vanish from his life, find someone better.

It's enough to make his head spin.

Although it doesn't change the fact that he's sick of stuffing these invitations into envelopes.

Connor comes into the living room then, phone plastered to his ear and a scowl on his face. He's wearing just his boxers, as Ste left him passed out in bed an hour ago, although that satisfaction seems to have vanished now as he pulls the phone away from his ear with a sigh and jabs at a button.

"What's the matter?" Ste asks him, pleased to have a break from invitation duty.

Connor sighs again, collapses on the couch beside him and rests his head on Ste's shoulder, all adorable dejection. "Trying to get hold of my friend."

"Which friend?" Ste doesn't know many of Connor's friends. They've not been together long enough, and Connor likes to keep Ste to himself for the most part. The only time he's really been in their company was at their engagement party, with the lovely Cormack and his spiteful words, but Ste can't even remember any faces now, let alone names.

"You know the night I met you? The guy we had the leaving party for."

Ste thinks back to that night while Connor sits up straight again, picks up an invitation to examine.

"Right," Ste says. "I never met him. He left early, you said."

"Yeah, went off to conquer America. It's a damn nightmare to get hold of him now." He drops the invitation back on the table with a little huff, looking so much like a miserable sod that Ste can't help but wrap an arm around his bare back, prop his chin on his shoulder.

"Why you trying to get hold of him?"

"He's my oldest friend, isn't he? Known him forever." He shrugs, jolting Ste's chin on his shoulder a bit. "Want him to be my best man."

"Oh," says Ste.

He's already got his best man. There really wasn't any question of it. Tony's been his saviour in life in so many ways, from giving him a roof over his head in those early days, to a steady job when he and Amy were struggling to eat. He's been Ste's confidant, and his father figure, and one of his best friends, and Ste owes him more than he can ever repay.

Tony was delighted when Ste asked him, and they'd shared a bit of a girly squeal and a hug which neither of them will ever speak of again.

"Are you gonna keep trying him?"

"I'll have to," Connor says. He looks across the room at nothing, and Ste can see years of memories flashing in his eyes. "Never imagined getting married without him by my side."

It's one of the most sentimental things Ste's ever heard him say. This guy, this old friend, must be pretty special.

"I mean," Connor continues, "we've had our ups and downs over the years. I haven't always agreed with the things he's done. But…"

"What's his name?" Ste asks, because he feels like Connor wants to talk about him, share some of this man with Ste.

A soft smile appears on Connor's lips. "Brendan," he says, quietly but with a heaviness, as if the name means something, as if the very sound of it is significant. "Brendan Brady."

Ste's never heard of him.

::: :::

"I don't know, Ste," Amy shouts over the racket of the wedding band they're auditioning. "I just don't think you've given yourself chance to really think about it."

Ste sighs, although it goes unnoticed in the horrendous music being forced upon them. Connor recommended this band for audition, said he'd heard them play at a friend's wedding last year. Ste reckons he needs to get his ears tested.

"We've been over this. How many more times d'ya wanna give me the talk of doom?"

Amy shifts her chair closer while the band on stage launches into another song. In this empty hall, with only Amy and Ste as an audience, the music echoes painfully, drilling into Ste's head.

"I know I keep going on," she says, looking him in the eye, "but I worry about you. You barely know this guy!"

Ste knows him enough. Enough to know he wants to marry him. It feels right. At least, he thinks it feels right. It feels good, at any rate, and he loves him. There's not really any reason not to marry him. And Connor's given him so much already, turned his whole world around in the matter of months. Ste can barely reconcile his life now with what he had before.

"I know what I'm doing, Ames," he says, and he's about to launch into yet another defensive speech explaining to her all the reasons why this makes sense, but his phone vibrates against his leg in his pocket, distracting him.

It's a text from Connor.

_Got him! He's flying in on Sat. xx_

Ste doesn't care as much as he probably should. He's pleased for Connor, of course, that he gets to have his best friend by his side on his wedding day. But if this guy—this Brendan Brady—is as much of a high-flyer as Connor says, and if he's got a life for himself in America now, then he's really only going to be a snapshot in Ste's life with Connor. It's not really worth his time to give the man much thought.

"Look," he says to Amy, slipping his phone back in his pocket and wincing at a particularly off-key screech from the singer. "I know what I'm doing, right. Stop worrying."

Although he knows he's asking the impossible. Fortunately, Doug's more optimistic, beaming at Ste when he arrives at the deli later that day, launching into a hummed recital of the wedding march.

"Leave off," Ste says, laughing, as he slips his apron on. "Anyone would think you're more excited about this wedding than I am."

"Just pleased for you," Doug says. "Not long to go now!"

About six weeks, give or take a few days. The thought of it makes Ste's stomach squirm, and he heads straight to the kitchen to cook, give his mind something else to do, Doug bellowing orders at him from out front as he serves customers.

He's worked here with Doug since the day it opened. Hired Doug as his co-manager when he realised he wouldn't be able to do it all himself. Although over the weeks Doug's become more like his partner, running the place as efficiently as Ste, sometimes better, and Ste's often had the thought of making it official, some kind of legal business arrangement. He'll have to talk to Connor about it sometime.

The day flies by, the business benefiting from College Coffee shutting down after a failed health inspection. Ste's kept on his feet, and he works seamlessly with Doug, serving and cooking and watching the time tick by so quickly, he's surprised when closing time comes around suddenly. He takes Doug for a drink at the Dog after work then bids him goodnight, goes home to cook dinner for Connor, gets the inclination to put a little romance in it—bottle of wine, a candle on the table.

In the early days of their relationship he would plan for seduction—wait for Connor's return with his dick hard, having spent time working himself up, getting ready to fuck. But Connor always came home tired, or wearing something he didn't want to mess up, or generally paying no attention to Ste's attempts at allure, and so Ste had given up. They have sex in bed at night, two or three times a week. It's good, and he always climaxes, but he can't help thinking there's something missing—something to get his blood burning, make him so desperate that he doesn't care about Connor's protests, smashes through them and fucks him dry on the couch, or over the kitchen counter, or in the shower.

But he is, after all, brought to orgasm at least twice a week. He doesn't really have anything to complain about.

But Ste's heart has never raced for him, and he's come to realise that it never truly happens in the real world, not like in the movies. It didn't happen when he first met Connor, and it doesn't happen now. His time with Connor is pleasant, and he loves him, and that kind of hungry passion, he decides, exists in the movies and in romance novels and in frenzied, drunken one-night stands that mean nothing come morning. That moment these movies and books try to tell you about isn't actually real, that there's a moment in your life when that one person walks in, and the world stops spinning, and your breath freezes in your lungs, and for that one unbelievable instant nothing and no one exists but you and that other person.

So when it does happen to Ste, he's so far from being prepared for it that he doesn't know how to process his reaction. It happens when he's sat at the bar in a fancy restaurant, talking to Amy and trying to get a drink. Behind them their table is laid out, a reservation for god knows how many—the wedding party, mostly, and a few members of Connor's extended family. A get-together before the rush of the wedding preparations really begins. Amy's rabbiting in his ear about her college coursework, and Ste's sighing and staring around while waiting for the bartender's attention, and then the door of the restaurant opens, and everything jolts into slow motion, and _he_ walks in.

He's tall and dark and pale, looks about thirty or so, wearing a tight white shirt and black trousers, every stitch of his clothing clinging to his body as if designed especially for the shape of him. He's got these dark, deep eyes that Ste zeroes in on, and wide shoulders that make his stomach lurch, and he's looking around the restaurant as if searching for someone and Ste's welded to his bar stool, can't move, can't look away.

"Ste," Amy says, snapping her fingers in his face. "Ste."

"Oh my god," Ste says under his breath, and he's talking to himself more than to Amy, has to vocalise some of the heat shocking through his system. "Look at that guy. Wait, don't look! Okay, you can look."

She does, glancing over her shoulder and then back at him, whistling lowly. "Wouldn't kick him out of bed."

It's an understatement. Ste's never seen anything like him. Looks like he's just walked off a goddamn Hollywood movie set—the thrilling, mysterious bad boy.

Because Ste knows, without a doubt, that there's an edge to this man, and it sends a shiver down his spine.

Whichever lady he's here to have dinner with, she's a lucky cow.

Only it's not a lady he spots, who makes a grin spread across his face. It's Connor. And when Connor looks up from where he's chatting to his sister at the dinner table, his eyes brighten like stars and his face transforms into absolute, pure delight. Then he's getting up from the table in a hurry and rushing across the room and suddenly he and this man are hugging, clinging to each other, like old friends parted by time.

Old friends.

Connor's oldest friend.

Brendan Brady.

_Shit_, Ste thinks, his heart sinking like a lead weight into his gut. Because it's one thing being almost overwhelmingly attracted to a complete stranger he'll never see again, a brief moment of fantasy that harms no one—but this man is his fiancé's best man, the absolute worst kind of off-limits fantasy.

Ste hates him instantly. Hates him for being so violently attractive, for putting these thoughts in Ste's head and then sticking around for the foreseeable future, making Ste work to not see him that way.

Ste's marrying this man's best friend. He's not allowed to be so attractive that Ste feels gut-punched by the very sight of him.

"Look at you," the man—Brendan Brady—is saying as he pulls out of the hug and grasps Connor's shoulders, his grin wide and skin a little flushed. "Can't believe you've found someone willing to put up with you."

Connor laughs, gives Brendan's chest a good-natured push. "Shut up, you prick. Come and meet him."

Ste panics, looks at Amy in alarm. She frowns at him, because of course she doesn't know, doesn't understand.

"Ste," says Connor, bringing Brendan over to the bar. "I want you to meet someone."

Ste stands up off his stool and takes a breath, looks at Connor and then into the eyes of Brendan Brady.

Brendan's smile, when he looks back at him, freezes on his face before sliding off completely, and Ste doesn't miss the way his eyes flick down the length of his body and back up. It happens in the fraction of an instant, and Ste doesn't know if he's being judged or appreciated. He's not happy with either, and he tries to keep the scowl off his face.

Connor doesn't notice anything. He's grinning, all amped up on happiness at having Brendan here with him. "Ste, this is Brendan, my best man. Brendan, Ste. My fiancé."

The handshake seems to take an eternity to happen, though in reality Ste's vaguely aware that it doesn't. He and Brendan have their gazes locked, and Ste sees him swallow, and the barest ghost of a frown dents his brow before it vanishes and he smiles again, tight and strained.

"Pleasure," he says, his voice like roughened silk. Then he raises his hand, and there's a glint of something in his eyes that feels like a challenge.

Ste takes his hand and shakes it, holds his breath at the contact. "Nice to meet you." He reckons he couldn't sound less sincere if he tried.

Amy's introduced next, and then Connor's taking Brendan away to greet everyone sitting at the table, and finally Ste can breathe.

Amy's looking at him with concern, and it irritates him. "What?" he says, turning his back to the table so he doesn't have to see Brendan's stupid face anymore.

"Oh _Ste_," she says, exasperation in her tone. "For god's sake. He's your fiancé's best friend!"

His skin itches, and his head's starting to throb. "Dunno what you're on about," he mumbles, but he does, of course he does.

"Brendan!" he hears Connor's mum exclaim, absolute joy in her voice. "So lovely to see you again."

There's the sound of kisses, and the grunt of a tight hug, and then Brendan's drawling voice: "You're looking younger every time I see you."

"Oh, stop," she titters.

Ste scowls at the bar top. "Creep," he says, and Amy nudges him, rolls her eyes.

"Ste," Connor calls a minute or so later. "Come on, time to eat."

With a heaving sigh, Ste gets off the barstool and heads to the table, takes a seat next to Connor and somehow finds himself opposite Brendan. He tries to pay him no attention as they all read menus and place their orders, and it's not until he's picking away at a bread roll out of boredom—everyone having conversations that don't really involve him—that Brendan speaks, drawing Ste's eyes up to him.

"So, Ste. Short for Steven?"

"Yes," says Ste, biting the word out.

"I only left my boy here six months ago, and you weren't on the scene yet."

Connor laughs beside him, drapes his arm over the back of Ste's chair. "Well, when you know, you know," he says, shrugging. "There's no point waiting."

Brendan raises an eyebrow. "If you say so."

Connor's mum has caught onto the conversation, and she tutts, gives Brendan's arm a flirtatious tap. "Don't be jealous just because you haven't found that special someone yet."

"You know me, Karen." Brendan's smile for her is pure charm. "I like to keep my options open."

"No lady in your life then, Brendan?" Connor's dad pipes up, sitting at the head of the table and a little pushed back, his generous gut straining against the buttons of his shirt.

"Brendan's gay, Dad," Connor's little sister says mildly, and everyone on Ste's end of the table falls silent.

Ste watches Brendan's face, the way his lips tighten at the corners. Ignores the bruising of his own heart thumping against his ribs.

"What?" says Connor's dad. "Since when?" He sounds astounded by the information.

"Since always," she says.

"But that pretty young thing you used to bring over all the time—"

Brendan clears his throat, gives Connor's dad an empty smile. "Just a friend."

Connor, possibly in an attempt to change the subject and save Brendan from this discomfort, says, "What's Lynsey up to these days?"

Brendan gives him a look of barely concealed relief. "Haven't spoken to her in a while. I might stop back home before flying back to the States."

"I'll have to take you there sometime after the honeymoon," Connor says to Ste, giving his shoulder a little rub. "Meet the lads."

"Not sure he could handle them." Brendan's words are dry and teasing, and it gets Ste's back up.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Brendan's only response is a smirk.

The conversation moves on, and Ste half listens to Brendan's debate with Connor's dad about why on earth he'd want to leave the UK for America. No one talks to Ste, although it's not much of a surprise. He glances up the table at Amy, who's sitting amongst some of the cousins, looking as isolated as Ste feels. He exchanges a smile of sympathy with her.

He's just put his fork down on his plate when he finds the plate snatched away from beneath his nose.

"You finished with that?" Brendan asks, putting Ste's plate on top of his own empty one and digging into the remains.

"Don't worry," says Connor, amusement in his tone, "he's always been an animal."

But Ste's not thinking about that. He's caught on how Brendan's using his fork—didn't swap it for his own, just picked up Ste's and used it to feed the leftover pasta into his mouth, tongue wrapping around metal that Ste's just had in his own mouth.

It makes his collar feel tight, and he tugs on it.

Brendan winks at him. "Never let good food go to waste, my friend."

"Don't you find him annoying?" Ste mutters to Amy later as they stand at the bar once again, getting some breathing space.

"No." She looks nonplussed. "Should I?"

Ste shrugs. "Just seems really full of himself."

"Excuse me," says Brendan's voice in his ear then, alarmingly close, and Ste freezes before going hot all over as Brendan pushes right up against him, reaching around him for the pen sitting by the till.

"D'you mind?" Ste huffs, trying to shrink away from him and failing.

Brendan's eyes, when Ste cranes his neck around to glare at him, are glittering. This close, he's even more shockingly attractive, and Ste feels smothered by him.

"Nope," says Brendan, the hint of a smirk on his face.

The pen, as it turns out, is so that Brendan can sign the bill and pay for everyone's meal. The ladies at the table are beside themselves with it.

"Brendan, you shouldn't—"

"Oh Brendan, this is so good of you—"

"Ugh," says Ste, because really.

Amy laughs. "It's not his fault you fancy him."

"I don't fancy him," Ste grumbles, going red as he says it.

He catches up to Connor ten minutes later, stood outside and attempting to hail cabs to take his half-drunk family home. "Listen," Connor says to him, eyes focused on the road, the traffic, "I've told Brendan he can stay in our spare room."

The bottom falls out of Ste's stomach. "What?"

"Just until after the wedding. Then he'll be heading back to America."

"After the wedding? That's six weeks!"

Connor looks at him then, noticing his tone. His eyebrows draw together. "I could ask him to go to a hotel…?"

Yes, that's exactly what Connor should do, but Ste's not going to make him. He can't stand the thought of having Brendan in his space for the next six weeks, having to look at him and listen to his voice and breathe his air. But this is Connor's best friend, and these six weeks are all he has. "No, it's fine."

Connor beams at him, slings an arm over his shoulder, goes to open his mouth to say something but is interrupted by Brendan, who's unlocking the door of what looks to be a high-rate rental car.

"Connor," he says, beckoning him over with his hand, "got a bottle of whiskey in here with our names on it. C'mon, fella."

Connor gives Ste a look that speaks of apology and Ste sighs. "Give me the keys," he says. "I'm gonna take Amy home. I'll see you back at the flat."

"Love you," Connor says as he fishes the car keys out of his pocket and drops them in Ste's palm. He kisses Ste on the cheek.

"Yeah," says Ste heavily, then goes to find Amy.

She's still banging on about Ste's reaction to Brendan as he drives her home—"…he is gorgeous, though; I can see why you…"—although he ignores her for the most part, makes the appropriate noises to pretend he's paying attention.

He gets back to the flat to find Connor and Brendan on the sofa, already a quarter way through the whiskey bottle. Connor's wearing a drunken grin, his eyes hazy.

Brendan doesn't look affected at all, his eyes steady and dark when he tracks Ste's movements through the flat.

"Hey," says Connor. "You get Amy home okay?" His words are starting to slur.

"Yeah." Ste gets a glass of water, goes back into the living room, avoids Brendan's stare. "You staying up long?"

"We're just catching up," says Connor, and then he laughs, although Ste can't see why. "Why don't you join us?"

"Nah. I'll see you in the morning."

He heads to the bedroom, Brendan's deep, rolling drawl following him, the words slithering up his spine as he walks away.

"Goodnight, Steven."

He swallows and closes the bedroom door on him.

Hours later, in the dead of night, his pre-bedtime glass of water revisits him and he tiptoes out of bed, goes to the bathroom. On the way back he notices the door of the spare bedroom is open a crack, a soft glow of light spilling through, and Ste pauses, looks through the gap.

Brendan's reclined back on the bed still fully clothed, a laptop propped against his raised knee, his face awash with blue-white from the screen. Ste watches him for a moment, even though he's doing nothing but staring at the laptop; but then he must feel Ste's presence because he looks up suddenly, his gaze cutting across to Ste's like a whip. It makes Ste suck in a breath but he doesn't move, and they stare at each other, and the place is so dark and silent that it almost feels dreamlike, as though it's not really happening, he's not really standing here staring into Brendan's eyes through a gap in the door.

Neither of them speak, and eventually Ste gets a hold of himself and backs away, heads into his own room.

He wakes Connor up and coaxes him into sex, Connor keeping a hand over Ste's mouth the whole time so Brendan doesn't hear.

Ste kind of wants him to.

::: :::

**Two**

Ste wakes up to an empty bed, which isn't anything unusual. Connor's always been an early riser, whereas Ste likes to sleep until the last possible minute, often pressing his snooze button a few times too many just to catch a few more minutes of peace.

He gets up and he stretches, and he's almost forgotten all about their impromptu houseguest until he finds him in the kitchen, sitting at the breakfast bar and reading the paper. Ste receives barely a glance from him as he ducks into the bathroom, and he finds himself noticing all the ways Brendan's pushed into his space already—the unfamiliar bottle of aftershave on the bathroom counter, the extra toothbrush in the pot, the damp towel hanging on the back of the door.

He feels like an idiot when he picks up the aftershave and smells it, but he does it anyway. He doesn't recognise the label, but it smells expensive.

Brendan's still reading the paper when Ste goes into the kitchen and starts the coffee pot. He looks at the back of Brendan, at the perfectly styled hair and the sharp cut of his grey suit. It irritates him.

"What have you got a suit on for?"

His sudden words don't startle Brendan like Ste had kind of hoped. He merely turns a page and murmurs, "I like to look good." As if that isn't the most arrogant statement he can make.

"And you have to wear a suit for that?" He realises how it sounds: _You don't need a suit to look good_. He only hopes Brendan doesn't pick up on it.

Brendan sits up straight, closes the paper and turns on his stool to face Ste.

Ste, breath held for whatever Brendan's going to say, finds himself focusing on how the ends of his moustache are perfectly aligned.

"You got a problem with me, Steven?"

Ste flicks his gaze back up to Brendan's eyes. His deep, intense eyes. "It's Ste. And no, I haven't," he mutters, scowling. "I don't even know you."

Brendan tilts his head, considering him. "Give a fella a chance before you judge him."

Only Ste's not judging him. He's judging himself, and his inability to pay attention to anything other than how attractive this man is whenever he looks at him. It's ridiculous.

Brendan lifts a hand to smooth down his moustache, his jacket sleeve riding an inch or so up his forearm, his watch glinting in the morning sunlight streaming into the kitchen.

"That's a nice watch," Ste says grudgingly.

Brendan looks at it, runs his fingers over its face. "It was my dad's," he says, his voice low and soft. "About the only decent thing he gave me."

Ste can read between the lines, can tell there's some bad blood there, and he feels compelled to tell Brendan that he can relate.

"I never even knew my dad."

Brendan stares at him. There's curiosity in his eyes, but he doesn't voice it. "Probably better off for it."

He can think of nothing to say to that, so he turns his back and busies himself with making coffee, then hitches himself up onto the stool next to Brendan at the breakfast bar. Brendan's reading the back page of the newspaper now, although Ste has the suspicion that he's only doing it as a means to look occupied.

"So what do you do?"

"I'm in business."

"What kind of business?" Ste pushes.

"This and that."

Ste frowns at the side of his face. "If you want me to give you a chance, don't be so shady."

"Don't ask so many questions," says Brendan, pushing the paper aside and fixing Ste with a levelled stare.

"You're not very good with people, are you?"

Brendan smiles, his eyes glinting with mirth. "Likewise."

The front door opens before Ste can come up with a suitable response, and Connor comes in, sweaty and flushed from his run.

"Morning," he says, brushing past them both and heading for the coffee pot. "Any coffee going?"

Brendan's still looking at Ste, still with that glint in his eye, and Ste doesn't know what he's supposed to do with this much attention.

He gets up and says, "I'm off to work," reaches for his keys in the fruit bowl.

"What do you do?" asks Brendan.

Ste's got a smile of his own now. "This and that."

The look on Brendan's face says _touché_.

"I bought Ste a deli." Connor takes Ste's stool, sits beside Brendan with a cup of coffee in his hands. "He's always liked cooking."

"Yeah?" says Brendan, his voice slowing to a sultry drawl. "Good with your hands?"

"Get your own fella to flirt with," Connor mutters mildly, nudging him with his elbow and stealing the newspaper from beside him.

"I've gotta go," Ste says, because he feels weird, and he feels wrongfooted, and Brendan's still looking at him like he's the most fascinating, amusing thing in the world. "I'll see you later."

"All right, babe," says Connor, giving Ste a wink, "but I've got a meeting in the city so I'll be back late."

Ste chances another glance at Brendan. "What about you?"

"Places to go," says Brendan, because the guy doesn't know how to be anything other than evasive. "People to see."

Irritation is building in Ste's veins again. "Right," he says, tone snappish. "Fine."

Then he leaves, wondering if it's too much to hope that Brendan won't be there when he gets back.

::: :::

Christmas is heavy in the air. The morning's bright, the air's crisp and clean, and the village before him is starting to turn red and green and silver with Christmas decorations. He's always liked Christmas, but he could do without the cold, and he stomps into the deli with his arms around himself, trying to rub warmth back into his torso.

"Freezing out there," he says to Doug, who's in the process of restocking olive oil bottles on the display shelf.

He nods. "I reckon we've got snow on the way." The final bottle goes up, and he turns it just so, ensuring the label lines up with all the rest in the row. Stickler for detail, is Doug. "How was your weekend?"

"Don't even get me started," Ste grumbles, making Doug raise his eyebrows at him. Ste heads behind the counter to hang up his jacket and put on his apron, struggling to tie it with his frosty fingers. "Connor's best man flew in from America."

That piques Doug's interest. "An American?" He doesn't get to see many of his own in this little village full of middle-England students.

"No, Irish. He moved to the States a few months ago."

"Oh," says Doug, hopeful eyes dimming. He picks up the empty olive oil case, carries it past Ste and into the kitchen. "What's the problem anyway?"

"There isn't one." Doug gives him a stare that says he's not buying it and Ste huffs. "He's just really annoying, right. Arrogant."

"Really?" Doug frowns. "That's not cool," he says, because he's prone to these mild statements that speak the obvious but don't say much of anything. "Maybe just try to stay out of his way."

"Bit hard, that," Ste says sardonically. "Seeing as he's staying with us."

"Then…I don't know. Just ignore him."

"You don't know him," Ste grumbles. Ignoring Brendan Brady seems like the most impossible goal in the world right now.

"Neither do you," Doug points out reasonably, the bastard.

"Let's just…" Ste searches around for a change of subject, because Doug's right, and he doesn't know how to respond to it. "We're doing the decorations today, right? Let's just get on with that."

Doug looks as though he's trying not to smile at Ste's misfortune. "Fine. Can you go to Price Slice to see if they've got any of that snow spray left?"

He's only just bloody got here, but he goes anyway, takes his apron off again and puts his coat on, heads across the way to the shop.

Of course Brendan's in there, peering at the loaves of bread as though making a vital decision. He notices Ste's arrival and he glances up, surprise flashing into his eyes.

"Following me?" Ste asks him, and he knows he sounds like a petulant teenager.

Brendan considers him for a long moment. "That was supposed to be my line."

Ste's defensive, because the last thing he wants is for Brendan to think he'd seen him come in here and decided to join him. "Just came in here for some snow."

"I don't think they sell weather here, Steven," says Brendan, and even though Ste knows he's taking the piss, his tone is carefully neutral, leaving Ste unable to rise to the tease.

"Snow spray," he clarifies, spotting a bottle of it on a shelf nearby and grabbing it. He holds it up for Brendan's inspection, but he doesn't look at it. "We're putting up the Christmas decorations in the deli today."

"That your shop there, is it?" Brendan asks, nodding out the window towards the deli.

"Yeah."

Brendan smiles. "Cute."

"Shut up," Ste grumbles. He hates how difficult Brendan is to read when he's being perfectly neutral, his tone and his eyes giving nothing away.

"I was being genuine." Brendan gives him a look that might be sincere. "Looks like a nice little place."

"Oh. Thanks."

Ste tries to walk away from him, goes to the counter to pay for the snow spray. Brendan's behind him the whole time, waiting in line, then purchasing bread and jam and a small bottle of deodorant. Ste, without really knowing why, finds himself waiting outside the shop after for Brendan to come out, feels it would be impolite to just disappear without saying anything. This man is, after all, his houseguest.

Brendan comes out a minute later with his purchases balanced in one arm. His eyes are drawn to the dark abandonment of The Loft as he stops beside Ste.

"What's this building here?"

"Nightclub," says Ste. "Hasn't been open for a while though." He joins Brendan in staring up at it, silently reminiscing. He had some good nights in there with Amy back in the day, buying one-pound shots when they should have been saving for the next electricity bill.

Brendan's not so much looking at the place now as he is scrutinising it. "Hmm."

"You interested in it?" Ste asks, attention caught on Brendan's face now, the way his eyes are narrowed as he takes in every line of the building.

It takes Brendan a moment to look back at him, tear his attention away from the club. "I don't even live in this country, Steven," he says, then he shrugs. "I was just curious. I run clubs for a living."

Ste feels a sudden burst of irritation. "You could've just said that this morning."

"Wouldn't have been half as much fun, though," Brendan counters, smirking, "would it?"

"You're very…" Ste struggles for the right word to sum up what Brendan's making him feel right now.

"Charming?"

"Irritating," he decides, sticking to what he knows, the one thing he's managed to figure out about this man.

It makes Brendan laugh, low and dirty. "Maybe I'll come in for a coffee later."

"We've got coffee in the flat," says Ste.

"I bet yours is better," Brendan says, and it's like his words are a caress down Ste's skin, settling in his gut.

He doesn't come in all day, no matter how many times Ste looks up at the door each time it opens.

::: :::

Ste's all Christmas'd out by the time he leaves work for the day. He's seen enough tinsel and sprayed enough snow on windows to last him a lifetime. The place looks nice and festive though, and he's pleased with it.

He stops in Price Slice again on his way home to pick up ingredients for dinner, and he's all cosy in his sanctuary—the kitchen—by the time the front door opens and Brendan walks in.

Ste doesn't know when Connor gave him a key, but he supposes it's better than having to make sure there's always someone home to let him in. He stops what he's doing just long enough to look over his shoulder and acknowledge the man before he returns to chopping vegetables.

Brendan comes into the kitchen and sidles up beside him at the counter, standing so close that Ste can feel the heat of him. He wonders if anyone's ever sat Brendan down and talked to him about personal space.

"Evening," Brendan says lowly, oblivious to Ste's hyper-awareness of his proximity. "Connor not back yet?"

"No, still at that meeting." He uses his knife to scrape aside the carrot he's just chopped and reaches for another. "Uh…I'm making stir-fry if you want any," he adds, because he's polite.

"I never turn down food." Brendan peers down at what's already gone into the pan, then makes a low noise of appreciation that sounds like pure filth to Ste's ears. "Looks good."

"It'll taste better," Ste promises. The one thing he's never been modest about is his cooking ability. And perhaps his blowjob technique.

Brendan does little more than stand there and watch him, and while Ste's uncomfortable at first, he soon relaxes and even starts to enjoy the attention, the way Brendan's watching his hands work, paying close attention to how he handles the food.

"You like being a chef?"

Ste smiles. "Yeah, it's what I've always wanted to do."

"I can't cook anything," Brendan admits. "I burn water."

"Everyone can cook," Ste says, looking up at him in amusement. "It's just practice."

Brendan huffs a laugh. "I would offer to prove it to you, but I reckon Connor wants you alive for the wedding."

"You can't be that bad."

"You'd be surprised," says Brendan. They fall into another weirdly comfortable silence, and Ste's sure that any moment now Brendan will get bored, wander away, do something else other than watch Ste chop and fry vegetables. It can't be that thrilling to watch, but he looks content standing there, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. Eventually he says, "So why a January wedding?"

Ste draws his eyebrows together. "What d'you mean?"

"Why not wait until the spring, when it's warmer?"

"I dunno. It's what Connor wanted."

Ste's answer makes Brendan give a wry smile. "In a rush, is he?"

"Maybe he just can't wait to marry me," Ste says, his tone cheekily confident.

"I never thought he'd settle down."

"Why'd you say that?"

Brendan pauses before answering. "We're two of a kind, me and him. Always have been. And _I_ can't imagine settling down, so…"

Ste looks at him. There's not a hint of mirth on Brendan's face now. "Sometimes people grow up."

"I'm grown up," says Brendan, looking Ste flat in the eye. "I'm just realistic."

"You don't think marriage is realistic?"

"I don't think it's realistic that you can love someone so much that you'd want to spend the rest of your life with them." Brendan speaks matter-of-factly, nothing to his tone but pure honesty. "Just that one person. It's why the divorce rate is so high." He uncrosses his arms from his chest and rubs the back of his neck. Ste gets the impression he's not used to sharing his thoughts in such a way. But he continues, if only to hammer home his opinion. "What's the point? Don't waste the only life you're given on a single bet."

Normally these kinds of statements would annoy him, because he's a romantic, and he thinks love is a good thing, and if you can settle down with someone who makes you happy then you're pretty much set for life. But debating with Brendan would mean breaking this spell of calm that's drifted over them, and he doesn't want that.

There's a hint of sadness in Ste, though—that Brendan doesn't think there's any place in life for true love. It must be lonely, whatever he tells himself.

"You're very jaded," Ste says now, "considering you're not even that old."

"I'm two months younger than your fella," Brendan points out. "Apparently you like them old."

"I like _him_. Age has nothing to do with it."

"Like him, huh?" And of course Brendan would twist it. He seems to revel in friction, enjoy conflict.

"Love him," Ste says firmly, playing up to the bait. "I love him."

"So much that you're prepared to give the rest of your life to him?" Brendan raises an eyebrow. He's challenging Ste, and Ste no longer feels calm and relaxed.

"What's your problem? You're meant to be his best friend."

"Which is why I'm looking out for his best interests."

"You don't think I'm in his best interests?"

There's anger bubbling under the surface of Ste now, because he doesn't understand why Brendan's doing this, what point he's trying to make, why he's attempting to bend Ste's mind and make him _doubt_.

"I don't know you."

"No," Ste says firmly, tension seeping into his bones. He brings the knife down through the carrot like he's trying to slice away at this conversation. "You don't. Fuck, _shit_."

Blood blossoms over the tip of his finger instantly, drips onto the chopping board and over the blade of the knife. He lifts his hand to his face and sucks his finger into his mouth, eyes watering against the sting.

Brendan takes his wrist, tries to pull his finger out of his mouth. "Let me see."

"It's fine," Ste says, inspecting his finger, tasting blood that hasn't stopped leaking out of the cut.

"Let me _see_, Steven."

The authority in his voice makes Ste go with it and he allows Brendan to pull his hand across to his view, stands there as Brendan twists it and looks at it from all angles before pulling it under the tap, runs ice-cold water over it. Ste flinches, and it's like the pain has sucked away his anger. He's quiet inside now, and he stands there with his finger under the tap, Brendan holding his hand steady in his gentle grip.

Ste looks up into his face. Brendan's not looking at him, his attention caught by the blood siphoning off Ste's finger. His brows are drawn, the corners of his lips tight, and Ste lifts his uninjured hand to Brendan's face, brushes against the very edge of his moustache.

Brendan's only reaction to the touch is to flick his eyes across to him for an instant.

"How long have you had this thing for?"

The tightness of Brendan's lips eases, his face smoothing out. "I was born with it."

"Suits you." Ste can't help but smile, and he can tell by the softness of Brendan's eyes now that he's resisting a smile of his own.

He shuts off the tap, lifts Ste's hand to examine the cut.

"You're fine, it's not deep. Got any plasters around here?"

"That cupboard there. Top shelf."

Connor comes in while Brendan's in the process of securing a plaster around Ste's finger. "What's going on here?" he says, dropping his keys into the fruit bowl and frowning at what Brendan's doing.

"Cut myself, didn't I?"

"Idiot." Connor's tone is fond, and he lays a soft kiss on Ste's temple as Brendan steps away, throws the plaster wrapper in the bin. "This looks good. What are we having?"

"Stir-fry."

"I'll just go get changed." He gives Ste's backside a tap and wanders out of the kitchen. "Bren, you sticking around for dinner?"

Brendan looks at Ste, a question in his eyes. Ste smiles and gives the barest hint of a nod.

"Yeah."

"Have we got any beers in, Ste?" Connor calls from somewhere near the bedroom.

Ste sighs, turns back to the cooker, checks his vegetables haven't burnt during all the commotion. "Don't think so. I'll go to the shop."

Brendan's hand settles on Ste's back suddenly, warm and heavy. "I'll go," he murmurs, and it's as if it's for Ste's ears only. "You're cooking."

It's a gentlemanly notion, and it surprises Ste so much that he forgets to object.

::: :::

Ste doesn't see much of anyone over the following week. Connor's models are busy with their winter shoots, and Brendan always seems to be doing something or other, as evasive as ever. Ste occupies himself with work during the day, solitary wedding planning in the evening. He reckons he's got the seating plan down, and the invitation responses are starting to come in, so he's gathering final numbers for Tony's catering.

The only real time he gets to spend with Connor is when they have tea at Connor's parents' one afternoon, an awkward two hours that has Ste biting his tongue and his skin itching by the time they leave.

Brendan he sees fleetingly. Early in the morning; coming in late at night. Ste doesn't know what he does, doesn't want to know. It's not his business.

Amy comes into the deli on the Thursday. She's in a panic, because life's getting on top of her, unable to pay rent, college costs mounting up. Ste knows the feeling all too well from his days living with her, the pair of them twisting themselves up to pay the bills—the daily grind of struggling to make ends meet, of never feeling as if you can relax, as if things will just work. Nothing ever just works out for people like him, or Amy. At least not until he met Connor.

He walks her to the cashpoint despite her protestations and draws out money from the deli's account. She's burning with embarrassment as she accepts it, but it doesn't come close to the humiliation he feels when he has to ask Connor to replace the funds. The deli can't afford to give money away, and he explains to Connor about having to dip into the account, about Amy's struggles with finances.

Confiding in him results in Amy rushing back into the deli on the Friday afternoon, beaming and glowing with happiness. "He's only gone and paid my rent and college fees for the next year," she says, breathless, and when Ste says, "Who?" she answers with her eyes wide, "Connor." And suddenly Connor's got another fan, won another person over. It makes him irrationally angry, can't really figure out why, and half an hour after Amy's left the deli he's still in a foul mood, Doug busying himself in the kitchen, out of Ste's way.

It makes sense, therefore, that Brendan would choose that moment to pay his first visit to the deli, looking pristine and polished in his black suit and crisp white shirt.

Ste greets him with a blunt, "What do you want?" which makes Brendan raise his eyebrows.

"Bad time?"

"No. Just busy."

Brendan looks around at the empty shop, then back at Ste. There's unwelcome humour lighting up his eyes. "Clearly."

"Look," Ste huffs, "have you come in here to buy something, or…?"

"I'll have a coffee, if that's not asking too much."

"Why would it be asking too much?"

Brendan stares at him. "Why do I get the feeling you're about to rip my head off?"

"It's not you," Ste says after a moment, deflating with a heavy sigh. "I just…"

"Go on." Brendan's frowning now, all trace of humour gone.

Ste doesn't feel comfortable discussing his relationship issues with Brendan, especially when the relationship involves Brendan's best friend. He can't speak his mind, because Brendan's loyalty is to Connor. "Nothing." He attempts a smile, waves a hand up at the menu board on the wall. "Cappuccino? Latte?"

Brendan doesn't look at the menu. "Just a plain white coffee. Three sugars."

"No one needs three sugars," Ste says, tutting, while fiddling with the coffee machine.

"I do."

"You'll get fat."

"I've been taking three sugars my whole life," Brendan drawls. "Does it look bad on me?"

Ste looks over his shoulder at him. Despite himself, he gives Brendan's body a once-over, his cheeks warming when he realises what he's doing. "Not yet," he admits grudgingly, grabbing the finished coffee and putting it on the counter in front of Brendan. "But you're getting older."

"That's the second time you've called me old. Could give a fella a complex."

"I'm not calling you old. I'm just saying you're not young."

"Because that's better," Brendan says dryly.

Ste can't help it. The smile that spreads over his face this time is genuine, and the sight of it seems to warm Brendan's eyes.

"Here." He nudges the coffee closer to the edge of the counter. Brendan's hand closes around it.

"Thanks. What do I owe you?"

"Nothing," says Ste. "It's fine."

"Thanks. Keep smiling," Brendan adds just before he turns to leave. There's an honesty to his tone that puts a hitch in Ste's heartbeat. "Looks good on you."

Doug edges out of the kitchen after Brendan's gone, Ste still staring at the door as if hooked on the sight of it.

"Who was that?"

Ste pulls himself together, shakes off the weird feeling thrumming in his chest. "That's the guy I was telling you about," he says, looking over at Doug. "Connor's best man."

Doug frowns. "The arrogant, annoying one?"

"Yeah," Ste says awkwardly. It sounds harsh coming from Doug now.

Doug says, "Huh," with an underlying significance that Ste can't ignore, as much as he wants to.

"What?"

"Nothing." Doug smiles, even if Ste can't see what's funny about the situation. "You seem more cheerful now."

He pretends to catch his attention on a document slotted down by the till. "I was fine before, Doug," he mutters.

"Right."

::: :::

Ste gets the text from Connor as he's shutting up the deli for the night.

_Hey babe, Dog tonight?_

He heads home to shower and change before going to the pub, still deciding how to handle the situation with Connor. It isn't that he's not grateful for what he's done for Amy, because he is. Ste could never have provided for her the way Connor has so easily. But something about it niggles at him—like Connor's stepping on his toes, encroaching on his territory. Amy is _his_. Connor barely even knows her, hasn't taken the time to get to know her—as far as Ste's aware. Why he would think it's a good idea to financially support her so spectacularly is anyone's guess, and he can't let the matter go without saying anything.

The pub's quiet when he gets there, and he stands at the bar, waiting for a member of staff—any member of staff—to show up from out back or upstairs or wherever they're hiding rather than working.

Brendan walks in while he's still waiting. Ste's surprised to see him, but more surprised to see him out of his suit. He looks different in his black jeans and plain grey long-sleeved top. Softer around the edges, but also harder—the soft material of his top clinging to the curve and cut of muscle in a way that makes Ste's mouth run dry. Beneath those clothes is a body that could ruin him. Ste actively tries not to think about it.

Brendan spots Ste and comes over, half a smile on his face as if he's pleased to see him but can't really be bothered to show it.

"Did Connor invite you here?"

"Yeah, why?" says Brendan. "Is that a problem?"

"No, I just thought…" He trails off, not really sure how to word it.

Brendan gets it, his brows lifting. "You thought it was just the two of you?"

"Yeah." He feels awkward, and he looks away from him, searching for someone to serve him a bloody drink. "But it's fine though. I don't mind."

"Generous of you," Brendan says dryly. There's a heavy pause, and then: "I can leave you to it."

The fact that he would walk away because Ste asked him to has Ste wanting him to stay. It's a weird feeling, and he doesn't know what to make of it. "No, seriously. Let me get you a drink."

Brendan considers him. He seems to do that a lot—just stare at him, contemplate him, work him out, whatever. Ste doesn't know what goes on in his mind. He wonders if he'll ever find out.

"I'll get them," Brendan says a moment later. "Beer?"

Ste smiles and nods, goes to find a table, and watches in exasperation as Darren immediately appears and serves Brendan, as if Ste hadn't been waiting there for minutes before.

"That guy thinks he's funny," Brendan says as he puts the beers on the table and sits down. "He's not."

Ste laughs. "Yeah, you get used to him."

Brendan's eyes are bright and warm on him as he takes a sip of his beer. "Nice to see your mood's improved."

"There was nowt wrong with my mood," Ste says, though he's pretty sure Brendan sees through the lie. "I was just a bit annoyed about something."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"No." But he does, because Brendan's giving him that look again, the one that makes him want to open up. As long as he chooses his words carefully, there shouldn't be a problem. "Well it's just Connor, right."

Brendan nods, silently gesturing him to continue.

"I get that he's got loads of money and everything, but sometimes I just wish…"

"Go on."

Ste sighs, lets it all out. "Found out today he's paid for the next year of my best mate's rent and college fees."

Brendan doesn't respond straight away. When he does, his tone is carefully measured. "He's always been generous like that."

"He doesn't even know her," Ste grumbles, staring moodily into his beer bottle. The irritation of it all is catching up on him now, as if speaking about it is allowing it to affect him.

Brendan ducks his head to catch Ste's eye. "That's not what's bothering you about it though."

"What?"

"He bought you your deli," Brendan points out.

"Yeah…"

"And he bought you the flat you're living in. Now he's buying your friend's life for her—"

Ste's stomach twists painfully. "It ain't like that, right."

"He's basically bought you a whole new world," Brendan finishes, and there's a dramatic note in his tone that makes Ste's twisted stomach drop heavily into his gut.

"You make it sound like my life before him was really crap."

Brendan takes another sip of his beer before responding. "Well how was it then?"

"Really crap," Ste admits, a small laugh escaping him.

But he can't deny the truth in Brendan's words. Connor owns everything. He might have gifted Ste the deli, but it's still in Connor's name. As is the flat. And now Amy's relying on him too. If anything went wrong, all of this would be ripped from beneath Ste's feet. It's a lot of pressure to manage, and sometimes he feels like he could suffocate with it.

"But it was simple," he says now, and he has no idea why he's confiding in Brendan when he's pretty much the worst person to talk to about this. "I knew where I stood."

"And you don't now?"

Ste licks his lips. The weight in his stomach is melting into a kind of bleak nostalgia. "I didn't have a lot, but it was mine."

"You haven't had a lot of time to think about this wedding, have you?" Brendan's tone is softer all of a sudden, gentle. It scares Ste, and he rushes to answer.

"I do want to marry him," he says firmly. "None of this has anything to do with me not wanting to marry him. I love him."

"I love my car." Brendan lifts an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Doesn't mean I'd want to be committed to it for the rest of my life. Never able to try out other cars."

Ste stares at him, squints at him a little. "You're weird."

"I'm an acquired taste," Brendan counters, and Ste thinks it's probably the truest thing he's said so far. He's so distracted by the smile they share that he doesn't notice Connor arriving.

"Hey," says Connor, joining them at the table and shrugging off his heavy winter coat. "Sorry I'm late."

Ste smiles at him. "It's fine." He accepts the kiss Connor places on the corner of his mouth and then pushes back from the table. "I'll get you a drink."

He comes back to the table with a pint for Connor to find them both laughing. He raises his eyebrows at them as he sits, silently asking them to share the joke.

"We were just talking about going out this weekend," Connor says. He claps Brendan on the shoulder. "Been ages, ain't it, fella?"

"Yeah."

"Me and Brendan have had some mental nights in our time."

"Bet you have," Ste says dryly.

Brendan's mouth curves into a wry smirk. "You don't wanna scare the lad away, Connor."

"Yeah," says Ste. "I'm gonna choose not to know the details, thanks."

"Good, because I can't remember half of 'em." Connor laughs again, shares a look with Brendan that tells Ste he _really_ doesn't want to know. "So Saturday? We're all free?"

Brendan wipes a thumb over his moustache after taking a sip of beer. "Where're we going?"

"Black Saddle?" says Connor. "It's a gay bar."

"Of course it is." Brendan rolls his eyes.

Ste gives him a quiet smile that Brendan catches, his eyes twinkling. Ste can't imagine him in a gay bar, drinking and flirting with the boys, letting his hair down. He seems more like the smoking room and whiskey type, an air of class shrouding him. But then Connor doesn't look like the type for gay bars either, and that was where Ste had met him. "It's in Chester," he tells Brendan now. "Only opened a few weeks ago."

Connor and Brendan start talking about a night they had years ago, one that ended in Brendan going missing for three hours and Connor throwing up in a transvestite's shoes. It doesn't sound all that amazing to Ste, but it has them laughing and sharing in-jokes, so lost in memory together that Ste ends up pulling out his phone, flicking through the notes he's made about the wedding, things he still needs to do.

"When are you gonna give the final numbers to that caterer?" Connor asks him suddenly, and Ste sighs. They've been over this.

"That caterer's name is Tony and he's one of my best friends," he states levelly. "My best man."

Connor waves a hand, dismissive. "You know what I mean."

It gets his back up, Connor's inability to take an interest in Tony, or Amy, or anyone important to him. Ste's making an effort with _his_ best friend, isn't he? Paying him some attention? Perhaps more than Connor would like, if Ste's going to be completely honest, but it's beside the point. If Connor asked him to go to each and every one of his hundreds of friends and get to know them, Ste would. All Ste asks is that Connor remember the name of his best man. Just his name. He doesn't think it's that much to ask.

"He's not back off holiday until next week anyway," he says, his earlier mood returning. And he can't sit here and pretend he's completely fine about things now. "Speaking of best friends," he says slowly, and he can see Brendan's look of warning out the corner of his eye, trying to tell him not to do this now. Ste ignores him. "Why are you giving Amy money?"

Connor blinks at him. "I didn't." His tone is steady, calm. "I gave her landlord and college money. You said she was struggling."

"'Scuse me," says Brendan awkwardly, getting up suddenly and walking away.

"She is," Ste says. He doesn't care about Brendan right now, how uncomfortable this threat of a domestic might be for him. He cares about Connor, and how sometimes he makes Ste feel like less of an equal. "I mean, she was. But that doesn't mean—"

"I thought you'd be happy." He's firmer now, an edge of challenge in his voice.

"You don't even know her, Connor."

"I know she's your best friend."

"Exactly. She's _my_ friend. So if she's in trouble, I'll help her, not you."

"You tried that, remember?" Connor snaps, his eyes lighting up with aggression. "Then you had to grovel to me for a handout." He snaps his mouth shut as soon as the words leave him, realisation leaking into his expression and making him pale. His eyes speak of apology now, and he lowers his voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that." It might have been a slip of the tongue, but there's truth in it, and Ste feels the heat of humiliation crawling up his neck. "It's just not nice having your generosity thrown back in your face."

Ste stares at him, tries to see it from Connor's point of view, remembers Brendan's words from earlier. Connor _was_ being generous, however misguided, but that doesn't mean Ste has to always like it, always be grateful. He's not a pet, and he's not a trophy, and he has his pride.

But he's also not stupid, and he's painfully aware that his pride could be his downfall.

"Let's just forget it," he says heavily.

Connor sighs with relief. "C'mere," he says, getting a hand on the back of Ste's head and pulling him in for a kiss. He's smiling after, nuzzles his nose against Ste's. "I'll get another round in."

He goes to the bar, leaving Ste to sit and stew and try to get over it in the next two minutes. Brendan comes back immediately, as if he'd not gone far, stayed nearby and observed. It makes Ste uncomfortable, knowing that Brendan might have just witnessed a crack in his relationship, a crack he tries so hard to paste over.

"Don't be so hard on him."

Ste huffs. "Mind your own business."

"The guy's got more money than sense, all right?" He puts a hand on Ste's shoulder, grips it, a gesture of consolation. "He doesn't mean to step on your toes."

"If he would just think sometimes rather than being so impulsive."

He feels Brendan's eyes on the side of his face, and his hand on his shoulder, and the silence in this pause makes his skin itch. Then Brendan dips a finger under Ste's chin, lifts his face to look him in the eye. His expression doesn't speak of pity, or irritation at Ste mouthing off about his best friend.

It speaks of concern, and an edge of conflict.

"I genuinely think he wants to make you happy, Steven."

It's like his words are saying one thing but his eyes another, and Ste can't work him out, wishes he could peel open his skull and climb inside and see how his brain works, how he puts things together, what he thinks when he looks at Ste, and at Connor, and the imbalance of their relationship.

But mostly what he thinks of him. Just him.

Brendan still has his hand on Ste's face when Connor returns, and he snatches it away as if scalded.

::: :::

Ste gets over it enough to make love to Connor that night. It's done now, this thing with Amy, and there's nothing he can do about it. Wouldn't want to change it now anyway, not selfish enough to ruin Amy's world just so he can get a foot up in this partnership. He's picking his battles, and he has another one ready to replace it.

He draws patterns into Connor's palm with his finger as he lays spooned with him, the naked heat of Connor pressed all along his back and thighs. There's a sated quiet blanketing them, and while he's loath to disturb the peace, this is the best time to twist Connor's brain to his way of thinking—he's always the most agreeable after sex.

"I was thinking of bringing Doug into the business."

Connor's steady breathing stops, and the wall of relaxation pressed against Ste's back tenses up. "What?"

"He's practically my partner anyway," Ste says, keeps his tone soft and neutral, avoids anything confrontational. "I couldn't run the place without him."

"So you just want to give him a stake of the deli?"

"Yeah. It makes sense."

Connor rolls away from him and onto his back. "It doesn't make any sense, Ste," he says, and when Ste turns, it's to find him glaring up at the ceiling. "You don't sign away half your business to an employee just because he does a good job."

"But he deserves it," Ste coaxes. "He's been there since the day we opened."

Connor looks over at him, his expression incredulous. "So?"

Ste narrows his eyes at Connor's tone. "The place is as much his as it is mine. He does everything. He even chose the bloody colour on the walls."

It makes perfect sense to Ste. Maybe not from a business perspective, but he's not talking business here. He's talking about doing the right thing, recognising loyalty and dedication from someone who didn't have to give his all to something that wasn't his, that would garner him no profit.

"None of that makes any difference," Connor says. "I didn't buy the place so you could give half of it away. Now if he wanted to make an _investment_…"

"He doesn't have that kind of money."

"Then he doesn't get to own any of it." Connor's tone indicates that's the end of the matter, shutting Ste down as if what he thinks has no relevance.

The deli might have Ste's name above the door, but it sits firmly in the palm of Connor's hand.

"Not everything has to be so cold in business."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning sometimes you can make exceptions," Ste says. "He hasn't put any money into the deli but without him the place wouldn't be a success. All I do is cook."

It's painful, admitting it out loud. It's his one talent in life, and still it serves him no real purpose.

"And that's all you should keep doing." Connor rolls onto his side to face Ste, lifts a hand to smooth over Ste's cheek. He knows he's won the argument, and it's made the tension ease out of him. "You stick to cooking," he says, smiling, running his thumb along Ste's bottom lip. "I'll take care of business. Okay?"

Ste gets out of bed later, his mind too busy to let him rest. He tiptoes away from a sleeping Connor and slips on a T-shirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms, goes out to the living room and puts the telly on, volume low.

He doesn't want to think anymore; he just wants a distraction.

When Brendan comes in, quietly shutting the front door behind himself, Ste is half dozing on the couch, curled up in the corner with his head on the armrest. He watches through heavy-lidded eyes as Brendan removes his coat, puts his keys on the breakfast bar.

"Where have you been?"

Brendan shoots him a blank look, and Ste realises he sounds like a nagging wife.

"Sorry, none of my business."

Brendan gives him a sardonic smile before collapsing onto the other end of the couch, propping his feet up on the table with a sigh. "What are you watching?"

Ste's curled up on the couch in such a way that his toes are brushing against Brendan's thigh. It's a weird sort of contact, and he can't seem to stop focusing on it.

"Come Dine With Me."

"It's on at this time?" Brendan asks, eyebrow raised. He's shrouded in darkness. Ste hasn't bothered to put any lights on, so the only illumination is the telly flickering across the angles of Brendan's face. The cut of shadow and light gives him an enigmatic appeal and Ste wishes he knows what it is about this man that makes him so beautiful to him, wonders if everyone else sees it.

It takes him a moment to realise Brendan's waiting for an answer. "It's always on," he says, huffing a laugh.

Brendan looks at him, catches Ste staring. Ste doesn't blush, doesn't hurry to look away. It's like the blanket of night gives him permission to look for a little longer.

"Can't sleep?"

"Not tired." His eyes flick back to the telly, but he can feel Brendan's attention on him, warms under the intensity of it. Every time Brendan looks at him, it feels like a physical caress. "What?" he says, because he wants Brendan to know that he knows, that he can feel it. He's not unaffected.

Brendan waits for him to glance over again before answering. "Nothing." His voice barely has any sound to it.

A minute later, when Ste expects him to go to bed, Brendan gets comfortable. Slouches down further on the couch, folds his arms over his chest, rests his head back, and together they watch this random episode of Come Dine With Me without comment, and then the next one, until Brendan's half slumped to the side and Ste's toes have wedged their way beneath the warmth of Brendan's thigh and the next thing he knows he's waking up to sunrise, alone on the couch, the television switched off.

There's a blanket tucked over him, and the space on the couch beside him is still warm, as if only recently vacated.

::: :::

**Three**

By the time they go to the gay bar that weekend, the air has cleared between Ste and Connor, and Ste's looking forward to a good time. There's no point staying angry with Connor; Ste's confident he can get him to change his mind over time, because he's a generous man, and he's already given Ste so much, and when it comes down to it Ste knows that Connor just wants to make him happy, like Brendan said. And maybe on some things he just needs more time to realise that what makes sense for him doesn't always make sense for Ste, or for the relationship.

It's just time, is all. And they'll have plenty of that.

Brendan and Connor are ready to go before Ste's even made it home from work and he comes in to the apartment to find them half cut already, taking full advantage of the liquor cupboard Connor keeps in the living room. They're sat on the couch drinking from crystal tumblers and they both look relaxed and handsome in their clubbing finery. Brendan's gone for black jeans and a dark grey long-sleeved top, the vee dipping just low enough to tempt. Ste's eyes catch on the hint of chest hair he can see there as he passes them on to the way to the bathroom, and when he glances up, Brendan's looking at him, following him, Connor talking his ear off and unaware.

Ste showers and dresses and styles his hair, and when he comes out, Connor presses a glass of neat vodka into his hand, tells him they're getting a head start. Ste drinks it in one go before pouring another, sits on the couch beside Brendan while Connor goes off to find his phone and call a cab, and when left alone in the living room Brendan leans into his space and murmurs, "You look good."

When he sees the ghost of darkness in Brendan's eyes, he says, "You too," and he means it, wants Brendan to know he means it.

Brendan doesn't look drunk yet but he doesn't look entirely sober either, and Ste downs his second glass with Brendan's eyes on him, watching him swallow, the roll of his throat.

Alcohol does funny things to Brendan, loosens the binds. It sends a buzz through Ste's veins.

They pile into a cab and head to the club, and of course Connor knows the guy on the door so they don't have to wait in line. Inside it's packed and too hot and as they try to make their way across the dance floor to the bar, Ste loses them, finds himself alone and squashed within a group of intoxicated women. He breaks away from them, squeezing through a gap, too distracted by the elbows and knees jabbing him to pay attention to the slaughtered man jerking around behind him. The man slams into his back all of a sudden and the breath knocks out of him, makes him stumble, knocking against a tall, dark-haired man whose drink abruptly spills over onto his shirt and the crotch of his jeans.

"Sorry," Ste shouts, but the man is furious, and he doesn't care about Ste's apology.

"Look what you've done, you fucking—" His face is reddening with rage, and he lurches forward into Ste's space with a hand raised, finger pointing, alcohol-drenched breath leaking into Ste's senses and turning his stomach.

"I said I was sorry, didn't I?" Ste yells, gets his hands planted on the guy's chest to try to shove him away. "Back off."

"Don't fucking tell me to back off—"

The guy's suddenly propelled backwards, his face a picture of terrified shock as he loses his equilibrium.

Brendan's got his hand fisted in the back of the guy's shirt, and his expression speaks of danger as he pulls the guy around and up to growl into his face.

"Hey," he says, and he doesn't need to shout to be heard. He's so close to the guy's face that they're practically kissing. "Apologise to the man."

"He's the one who bumped into me!"

"And I'm the one telling you to apologise." His eyes are glinting with warning, and Ste's breathless. The power radiating from Brendan in this moment is making him burn hot all over. "Don't make me ask twice."

The guy seems to know when to cut his losses. He grimaces at Brendan before turning his head to look at Ste. "I'm sorry, all right? Jesus fucking—"

"Good lad." Brendan releases him, and turns him, and gives him a hearty shove on the back to get him moving. "Now jog on."

Ste watches Brendan calm down, the way he rolls his shoulders and smooths his fingers over his moustache, the aggression draining from his eyes as he looks at Ste, flicks his gaze down his body to check him over, see he's all right.

There's something very strange going on in Ste's body after what he's just witnessed. Half irritation that Brendan didn't think he could handle it; half something dark and thick and electric, something like the hot flush of arousal.

"You didn't have to do that," he says, although the irritation in him is quickly fading, leaving behind a tingling thrum of tension.

"Forget it," Brendan says. "We getting the drinks?"

Ste looks around, suddenly remembering the third element of this equation. "Where's Connor?"

"Finding a table."

They get beers and shots, which Brendan carries on a tray, and he says, "Hold on to me," as they move away from the bar. "Can't be losing you again." Ste clings to the back of his top as they make their way through the crowds towards the table Connor's commandeered in a corner.

They sit for half an hour, watching the dancers, and Brendan goes back to the bar twice for more shots. Added to the vodka he had earlier, the shots are giving Ste a pleasant buzz already, and one look at Connor and Brendan says he's not alone. Connor's going red like he always does when he's had a drink, and Brendan's eyes are starting to glaze, and he's sitting back loose and relaxed in his seat.

"Bit different to the places you and I used to go to, eh?" Connor says to him over the music, and Brendan nods, smiling wryly, looking around at all the young, barely dressed clubbers.

"Ever get the feeling you're getting old?"

"Nah," says Connor. "You're only as old as the person you feel." He punctuates his joke by giving Ste a grope under the table, making him laugh.

"Get off," he scolds playfully, pushing Connor's hand away. Brendan's watching the exchange silently, drinks another shot. "I bet you two were always on the pull together."

"We had a good time, yeah," Brendan drawls while Connor grins and nods, the drunken fool. "Somehow I don't think you're all that innocent either."

There's a sultry darkness in Brendan's tone that Ste's sure is down to his increasing intoxication, but it makes him go warm all over anyway, as if the tone was intended for him.

"I never claimed to be," he responds, and Brendan raises an eyebrow at him, eyes twinkling.

Ste's suddenly itching to move, adrenaline thrumming through his veins. He gets up and stretches his back, catches Brendan's eye drawing to the snapshot of skin his shirt exposes at his waist. "I'm going to dance."

Connor looks up at him. "Already?"

"Yeah. You coming?"

"Maybe after another couple of these," Connor says, holding up a shot glass.

Ste looks at Brendan, lets him read the challenge in his expression.

Brendan huffs a laugh. "I don't dance," he says.

"Shocker."

Ste finds a spot on the edge of the dance floor, doesn't stray too far from the table, wanting to keep them both in sight. The deafening music is pulsing a bassline through his body and he moves with it, uses it to guide his rhythm; he knows he's not the world's greatest dancer but he doesn't care, doesn't give a damn if he looks stupid. Dancing in a club like this, with the music swelling into every crevice of his body, is euphoric for him, and he's half lost to it when he notices Brendan watching him. Connor's talking away but he doesn't appear to be paying much attention—he's sat back in his chair, one of the strobe lights cut across his face to highlight his eyes, staring at Ste and refusing to tear his gaze away even when Ste stares right back, pushing his hands through his sweat-damp hair and parting his lips, letting his eyes fall to half-mast as he dances.

He feels like he's dancing for him. And he doesn't stop, doesn't look away, ignores hands grabbing at him on occasion, people trying to encroach on his space. Doesn't take a break until he sees Connor get up and head to the bar, goes back to the table, Brendan watching him the whole way—flips his chair around to straddle it, facing Brendan, his legs splayed wide around the chair's back.

He's sweating and he's flushed and he's heaving breaths, and Brendan's looking at him like he's gold dust.

"Boring, the pair of you," Ste says, grinning.

It snaps Brendan out of his trance, makes him laugh quietly. "I'm just taking it easy." He sits up and forward in his seat then, comes close enough to Ste's face that he can drop his voice to a murmur. "You've got some…interesting…moves." He watches Ste's mouth as he says it, his throat.

"Shut up," Ste says, laughing. He shoves Brendan, who shoves back, eyes glittering. "What does it take to get you out on the dance floor, eh?"

His eyes are tracking every bit of Ste, down his throat and to the slither of skin exposed by his collar, across his chest and lower, to the thighs spread wide around the chair. Then back up, just as slowly, and Ste's holding his breath. "You don't need me out there, Steven."

Ste leans forward, presses his chest flush against the chair back, gets close enough to feel the burn of intoxication radiating from Brendan's skin. "Maybe I want you out there," he says, grinning playfully. "See what you've got."

Brendan's staring at his mouth, and Ste licks his bottom lip to see what would happen. It makes Brendan swallow, and his eyelids flutter, and then he's looking back up into Ste's eyes. His own eyes are all pupil. "What you want," he says, "is another drink."

He takes one of the still-full shot glasses from the table, and before Ste can reach out for it, Brendan's got his hand on his jaw, prising his mouth open, and then he's tipping the drink onto Ste's tongue, his own lips parting, the tip of his tongue peeking out as he watches Ste laugh and choke, the alcohol burning a path down his throat. Then he shuts Ste's mouth for him, and he runs his thumb over Ste's lips to catch stray drops, and then he's sucking that thumb into his own mouth, and Ste's breath knocks out of him at the sight of it.

"I'm proper drunk, me," he says dazedly, stupidly, needing to put some reason to why he's reacting this way.

Brendan's response is to down another shot of his own, his brows drawn tight together. He looks caught in painful conflict.

Connor comes back to the table, and Ste goes back to the dance floor, and this time he doesn't look to see if Brendan's watching him. But he can feel it, the heavy weight of his gaze, feel it burning across his skin like a brand. He shuts his eyes, and he tips his head back against the music, and he lets his mind swim; lifts his shirt to cool his skin, runs a hand over the sweat sticking to his chest, rolls his hips and slackens his mouth and feels the rolling heat of intoxication flood his system.

When he opens his eyes again, Brendan's gone. Connor's alone at the table, staring out at the crowds but looking too drunk to take anything in, and when Ste tries to indicate to him that he's going to the bathroom, he's not entirely sure if he understands.

The path to the bathroom is treacherous, too many people and too much alcohol in his veins, and he bumps into a dozen people, muttering apologies, before he reaches his destination. The bathroom's dark and moody, the music quieter here, the bassline thumping against the walls like a heartbeat. Ste's ears are ringing as he edges around people, tries to find somewhere to piss, does his best not to stare at people making out and no doubt having various forms of sex in the darkened corners. All the urinals are occupied, so he tries the cubicles, half the doors shut; passes one with a man slumped on the floor by the toilet, another with someone throwing up into the bowl, one with two men apparently having a good time together—then he stops, and he freezes, and he edges back.

It's not just any two men. It's Brendan, and some small blond-haired stranger.

Brendan's got his back to the wall of the cubicle, and he hasn't bothered closing the door, and on his knees before him is the stranger, who's clearly midway through giving him a skilful blowjob. Brendan's hand is tangled in the back of the boy's hair, and his top is stretched out at the neck as if it's been yanked, and his head is tipped back against the wall, his eyes half closed, his breathing laboured.

The boy's sucking noises are obscene and enthusiastic and horribly loud, but Ste's not looking at him. He's focused on Brendan's face, fascinated by how he shows his pleasure, the flush of his skin and the sweat gathering at his brow.

Ste can't explain what he feels going on inside himself as he watches. It's a mixture of embarrassment and guilt, invading this private moment in such a way. But there's something else, something he can't deny in his drunken state—it's jealousy, and it's arousal, and his skin is burning with it.

And then Brendan's looking at him suddenly, eyes peeling open and flicking over to him, as if he heard Ste suck in his breath, or his heart thud against his ribs, or smelled the scent of his building lust as he watches.

And then Brendan's still looking at him, and the boy's motions are speeding up, and Brendan's gritting his teeth, and his neck's flushing red, and his eyes are boring into Ste's and drawing Ste in like twin magnets of burning heat, and Ste knows he's about to come, and he almost tips forward into this scene before him—

But he doesn't. He draws in a shuddery breath, and he blinks his eyes away, and he flees, the resonance of Brendan's groan echoing behind him.

When Ste makes it home that night, he takes a drunken Connor to bed and rides him until he's sober with it.

::: :::

"How's it going? You know, with Brendan being there."

Ste looks up from where he's been staring a hole into Amy's kitchen table. He didn't come here to give her the silent treatment, but he hasn't had much to say, and he doesn't know what to say now either. How is he supposed to answer that question? _Oh yeah, it's great, you know, aside from watching him getting his dick sucked last night. Totally normal._

He settles on: "Fine."

She frowns at him. "Is there a problem?"

"No, why?"

"I dunno," she says, shrugging. "You've just been weird about him since he turned up. It's not still because you fancy him, is it?"

Embarrassment floods him, making his stomach lurch. "I don't fancy him!" he insists, sitting up straight in his chair. "Stop saying that."

She considers him for a long moment. "It's okay to look, you know," she says gently, wrapping both hands around her mug. "You've got eyes, and you're only human. Just don't, you know…"

He swallows. "What?"

"Act on it."

He almost wants to laugh, a weird kind of panicked delirium rising in his chest. "There's nothing to act on," he states firmly. "I don't fancy him. He's not interested in me. So can you just stop going on about it?"

"Fine," she says, lifting her hands from her mug in a gesture of submission. But he knows she's not convinced, and he hates it. "Whatever you say."

There's a pause while she studies him, and he picks at his fingernail, feeling smothered by her implied accusation, and at the same time desperate to talk about it, figure out what's twisting up inside him.

"Tell me how the wedding plans are going instead then."

He latches onto the new subject, anything to stop him running his mouth off and getting himself in trouble. "Not much to say really. Going to pick up the rings on Tuesday."

"That'll be nice," she says, smiling. "What about flowers and everything? Music?"

"Ain't done any of that yet." He gives an awkward shrug. With so little time left until the wedding, he should be more on top of things.

"Well you need to get a move on, Ste! There's only a month to go."

"I know," he says, slumping back in his seat. The hem of his shirt rides up a little with the movement, sending a chill across his skin. He shivers. "Cold in here. You not got the heating on?"

She grimaces. "Boiler's packed in."

"Do you need me to—"

"Nope," she says firmly, no room for argument. "I've got it covered."

He looks around at his old home, at the peeling wallpaper and mould creeping over the skirting boards, the torn net curtains and the creaking sofa. She's got out their box of ancient Christmas decorations, has it sat by the TV, waiting to go up. "I miss this place, you know," he says, a heaviness to his tone. "We had some good Christmases here, didn't we?"

"Oh yeah." She rolls her eyes. "Freezing, starving, no money to get each other presents."

"You're not getting me owt for Christmas, are you? I know money's tight."

"Never you mind," she says, giving him a stern look.

"'Cos it's enough that you're just spending Christmas day with us."

She smiles, warm and bright. "Where else would I spend it, eh?" He returns the smile, and he's suddenly struck with a pang of missing not just this old dump, but also her, and the relationship they shared when living together.

He wraps her up in a hug at the front door on his way out, murmurs, "I miss you," into her ear.

She tightens her arms around him, rests her chin on his shoulder. "I haven't gone anywhere."

"I know, but…"

"You know you're welcome here at any time." She pulls away, places her hands on each side of his face to get him to look her in the eye. "This will always be your home, Ste," she says, and it hurts him somehow, a sharp jab to his gut.

::: :::

Brendan comes in at gone midnight, when Ste's once again sitting up alone in the darkness, watching the telly.

Ste's not seen him since the incident in the club's bathroom, Brendan having disappeared soon after, and he's glad for it. He wouldn't have been ready to face him this morning, wouldn't have been able to look him in the eye without wanting to die, the ground to open and swallow him whole.

But he's had an entire day to come to terms with it now, and he's not fine about it, not at all, but he can cope.

Brendan stops in the living room, looks at the TV.

"Come Dine With Me?"

"Yep."

"D'you want a cuppa?"

"Yeah, if you're making one."

And just like that Brendan goes to the kitchen, and he puts the kettle on, and things feel normal enough. And while Ste knows he's lying to himself, it's a coping mechanism that's working for him, so he goes with it.

"Here you go," Brendan says a minute later, handing him a hot mug of tea.

"Ta."

Brendan sits beside him, puts his feet up on the coffee table, blows the steam from his mug. "So where are we tonight?" he asks, nodding at the telly.

"Southampton."

"Went there on holiday once."

Ste turns his head to look at him. "When you were a kid?"

"Yeah," Brendan says, nodding. "Connor's family used to own a house down there. Not sure if they still do."

Ste huffs out a laugh. "They seem to own houses everywhere."

"Well at least you know you'll never be homeless," Brendan says with a smirk.

They settle into silence, and they make it through half the episode before Ste's coping mechanism disintegrates around him. He was fine while Brendan wasn't here, and he was fine while Brendan was talking, but now they're just sitting here, and they're not saying anything, and the elephant in the room is swelling and expanding until Ste has to mention it, can't just sweep it under the carpet like he so wants to.

He sucks in a breath of courage. "Look, about last night—"

"There's nothing to talk about," Brendan says instantly, cutting him off, as though he was waiting for it. His tone is low and dark, and there's a hint of warning there.

Ste can't let it go, though, because he's a tenacious idiot, and Brendan might not be affected by what happened, but he is. He's never been in that kind of situation before, seeing something he shouldn't, something dangerous, unable to look away from it. He can't get it out of his head, and he doesn't want Brendan to think that he doesn't care, that he feels no guilt or awkwardness about invading such an intimate moment. Not just invading it, but sticking around to watch.

"I just. I didn't mean to walk in on you."

"It's a public bathroom, Steven," Brendan says levelly. "You're hardly to blame."

"Do you—I mean." He can't believe he's about to ask this, but he has to know, has had the question going round in his brain all day. "Is that something you do a lot?"

Brendan takes a few moments to answer. "A man has needs," he says slowly, his tone measured. He looks into his mug as he speaks. "But I'm not usually so… I like to think I have more dignity than that."

"So why'd you do it last night?"

"I guess I just didn't have the patience to go somewhere more private." He smiles wryly to himself, and then he looks over at Ste, and it's the first proper eye contact they've had since he walked in and Ste's hit with it, his chest seizing. "I was too…worked up."

_Horny_, is the word he's looking for, and Ste licks his lips, wants to press for more, searching Brendan's face for a hint of something else. But he doesn't know how he can ask more questions without coming across as massively inappropriate, so it's with a sigh of disappointment that he decides to drop it.

"Well, still. I'm sorry."

Brendan still hasn't looked away, and the television lights are dancing in his eyes as he stares at Ste, and once again his gaze flicks down to Ste's mouth, only he's not drunk this time, has no excuse for it.

"If you're gonna apologise for anything, Steven," he says, almost whispering, the words hushing out beneath his breath, "it's not for walking in on me."

Ste swallows, and he tries to level out his breathing. "Then what?"

Brendan looks him dead in the eye, doesn't give Ste the ability or the desire to avoid him when he says, slowly and with intent, "What do you think put me in the mood in the first place?"

"Is it…" Ste's voice cracks, and his stomach squirms, and he wants to walk away from this conversation almost as much as he wants to lean in to Brendan's heat. "You can't say it's 'cos I was dancing for you," he croaks. "I look stupid when I dance."

Brendan's eyes glint with something dark and unrecognisable, and his lips twist like he wants to grimace, or smile, or something that shows what's just raced through his head. "No you don't," he says, breathy. "And don't let Connor hear you say that."

"He already knows I can't dance."

"No." Brendan pins him with his eyes now, and there's nothing disguised there. Ste can see it all. "That you were dancing for me."

The words sit between them, and they stare at each other, and in this darkness, this blanket of night, it feels like it's just them, that Connor's not in the next room, that there's nothing stopping Ste from voicing those dangerous thoughts lurking on the edges of his consciousness.

"I didn't mean to say that," he says instead, not denying what Brendan said, but not owning up to it either. Safe ground, far removed from what he really means.

Brendan smiles, but it's mirthless. Then he breaks the look at last, and he sits back in the couch, and he brings his mug to his lips. "And I didn't mean to watch you," he says before taking a sip. "We all do things we shouldn't sometimes."

There's so much veiled significance in Brendan's words and tone that Ste's head spins with it. All he can do now is get away from it all. "I need to get to bed."

"Yeah," says Brendan, gaze fixed firmly on the television now. "Goodnight, Steven."

It doesn't feel like the end of the conversation at all. It feels like the start of something that goes beyond words.

Ste doesn't fall asleep until dawn.

::: :::

**Four**

Ste's woken up by the exquisite torture of wet, sucking heat on his dick. As soon as he opens his eyes, arching into it on instinct, the heat disappears, and suddenly Connor's smiling face is in front of him.

"Morning."

"Uh…morning." Ste blinks in confusion. This has never happened before. "What are you doing?"

"Giving my sexy fiancé his wake-up call," Connor drawls before slithering back down his body.

There's noise coming from the kitchen, and Ste feels a moment of panic piercing through the wash of arousal. "Brendan's out there."

"So?"

"He might hear us."

"I'm sure he won't care," Connor says, before taking Ste's dick in his hand and licking a stripe up the underside. "Just lay back and let me make you feel good."

The pleasure overrides his indecision, and he does what he's told. It's such a novelty—Connor initiating sex in the morning—that he doesn't want to say anything that might put him off, lest it lead to him never being this spontaneous again.

When they eventually make it into the kitchen, Brendan is gone, but the untouched, steaming cup of coffee on the counter says he left only recently, and apparently in a hurry.

Ste tries not to read too much into it, and he tries not to think about last night, or the night before, or any other moment that's twisted him up ever since Brendan walked into that restaurant and tipped him upside down.

The wedding. That's what matters now. And Connor.

He pours a cup of coffee and leans back against the counter, watching Connor make toast. "We still going to get the rings on Tuesday?"

"Yep," says Connor, smiling at Ste over his shoulder. "And we've got a meeting with the events manager at the hotel on Monday. It's all getting going now, isn't it?" He comes over to Ste, puts his hands on Ste's hips. "You excited?"

Ste smiles. "Very excited."

"This time next month you'll be my husband," Connor says, shifting closer, his hands dragging up Ste's sides.

"Can't wait," Ste says, swallowing past a weird lump of dryness in his throat.

Connor kisses him, a feathery kiss on the corner of his mouth, and then breaks away to finish his toast.

"What are you doing this weekend?"

"Uh…" Ste rubs a hand over his forehead, tries to see through his clouded mind full of the wedding, and Connor's excitement of it, and Brendan. "Christmas shopping."

"Right, well take this." Connor pulls his wallet from his back pocket, takes a credit card from it and holds it out for Ste. "Treat yourself to something while you're at it."

The irritation that so often plagues him recently creeps into the edges of his morning haze. "I don't need your money, Connor."

Connor tutts. "Will you stop with that? We're getting _married_, Ste. Which means what's mine is yours now." He grabs Ste's hand, forces the card into it, makes him take it. "Soon as we're back from the honeymoon, I'll be adding your name to everything anyway. So what's the problem?"

"I just don't want anyone thinking I'm using you," Ste says after a moment, gazing at the gold embossed letters on the credit card, stomach squirming. He's not entirely sure he's telling Connor the true reason.

"Who thinks that?"

"No one," says Ste. He huffs and puts the card in his pocket, winces when the threat of a headache pierces at his temple. "I don't know. That cousin of yours."

Connor raises his eyebrows. "Cormack?" he asks, and when Ste shrugs, noncommittal, he says, "Ignore him. He's an idiot."

"Yeah, but if he thinks it, then others might."

"Who cares if they do?" Connor crowds in close, puts his hands on Ste's hips again, dips his knees to look him in the eye. "Forget about them. Okay?"

"Okay," Ste says, trying to take from the reassurance Connor's offering, but unable to sweep away the uncomfortable feeling of hollowness settling in his chest.

Connor's oblivious. "Good," he says, smiling. "Give us a kiss then."

::: :::

Ste does his Christmas shopping as quickly as possible, because he loves Christmas, but he hates shopping, and the shops are too crowded and overstocked to make any part of it enjoyable. By the time he's finished, he reckons he's heard every single Christmas song at least three times, and despite himself he's still humming the tune to _Santa Claus is Coming to Town_ when he gets home. He hides the gifts in the back of his wardrobe before showering and changing, then heads to the pub to have dinner with Doug and Amy.

He wakes up on Sunday to a note from Connor saying he and Brendan have gone off together to visit some old friend of theirs, so he spends the day alone, not doing much of anything, until Connor comes back—without Brendan—later in the afternoon, and they eat together.

He doesn't see Brendan again until late that night, gone midnight, during what Ste is coming to view as their regular appointment with Come Dine With Me re-runs.

Brendan sits beside him on the couch, as usual, and he puts his feet up on the table, as usual, and together they stare wordlessly at the telly, Ste leaning back on the arm of the couch, knees up, having lifted his feet to give Brendan room to sit.

"Where do you go to so late every evening?" he asks him after a minute of this silence.

Brendan glances at him. "Just looking to give you guys your space."

"He ain't even here half the time though," Ste says. "But really, what do you do?"

"Curious little fella, aren't you?" Brendan says, smirking, and Ste laughs.

"Who d'you think you're calling little, eh?"

"You."

"Fuck off," Ste says, lifting a foot to jab Brendan in the thigh. It evolves into Brendan pinning Ste's feet to the sofa, and Ste trying to kick him and failing, and they're both huffing laughter, and Brendan's eyes are twinkling, and this is the lightest Ste's felt all weekend.

After, when they've sobered from the scuffle, Brendan explains, as if there'd been no break in the conversation. "I used to live near here, didn't I? Before I moved to the States."

"So?"

"So I've been catching up with old friends, playing a bit of poker, that kind of thing."

He supposes that makes sense, and he tries to pretend he doesn't feel relief, a feeling he doesn't want to examine too closely, _can't_ examine. A part of him was expecting to hear Brendan has a man on the side.

"Well you don't have to vanish every night," he tells him. "I don't mind you being here."

Brendan lifts an eyebrow, smiling wryly. "Is that so?"

Ste feels like squirming. "Well I'm sure Connor would want to see more of you, wouldn't he?" he says awkwardly. "Before you disappear back to America." Brendan gives a vague nod at that, and Ste continues. "Who's been feeding you? Don't say you've been wasting money in restaurants every night."

"One of my closest friends lives in the city," Brendan says after a moment of hesitation. "I've been having dinner with her a lot."

It's a snapshot of honesty, and Ste clings to it, this opportunity to delve into the personal side of Brendan, the bits of himself he keeps close to his chest.

"What's her name?" he asks, because he's interested, and he wants to know more, not just about this girl, but everything, as much as Brendan's willing to give him.

"Anne."

"Anne what?"

Brendan lifts an eyebrow at him. "Why'd you wanna know?"

"Lived here most my life, ain't I?" Ste says, shrugging, going faintly red. He doesn't want Brendan to think he's desperate for information; on the other hand, he wants Brendan to know he's interested, that he's not just some friend of Connor's to him. He's a person in his own right, one Ste wants learn. "I might know her."

"I doubt it."

"Try me."

Brendan considers him. "Minniver."

"Minniver…" The name sounds familiar, and he wracks his brain before the answer comes to him. "She's not related to that Mitzeee Minniver, is she? Proper tart she is. Always in the local paper with her arms wrapped around some new guy." He tutts. "Reckons she's a bit of a celebrity."

Brendan looks like he's waging a war against his smile. "She sounds…interesting. I'll keep my eye out for her."

"Keep clear, more like," Ste warns.

He's pretty sure Brendan's got more he wants to say about it, can see the conflict in his eyes as he figures out whether to open up more, or keep quiet. Eventually he looks away, and Ste deflates. He didn't realise how eager he was to hear more.

Brendan nods at the telly. "Where are we tonight?"

"Coventry."

"Never been there."

"Me neither."

"Great," says Brendan. He heaves himself off the sofa. "I'll put the kettle on, will I?"

::: :::

The next afternoon finds Ste and Brendan sitting around waiting for Connor to get home so they can go to the meeting with the hotel's events manager. He's not entirely sure why Brendan's coming along, but he doesn't mind it.

Besides, they've found an entertaining way to pass the time.

"It's all in the angle of your wrist," Brendan explains from his place on one of the breakfast bar stools. "If you haven't got a stiff wrist, it's just gonna go flying."

Ste grins. He's sat on the couch, looking up and over at Brendan across the room. "Stiff wrist, eh?"

"You've got a dirty mind, Steven," Brendan says, smirking.

Ste tries to smother his grin. "Sorry."

"Right," says Brendan, once Ste's made his face behave, "watch." He takes a piece of popcorn from his packet and holds it up, makes sure Ste's watching. "Like this." Then he throws the popcorn high in the air, tips his head back, and catches it in his mouth.

"You make it look so easy," Ste says, huffing at the smug expression on Brendan's face.

"That's because it is. Four-year-olds can do this."

"Shut up," Ste grumbles. He gets a bit of popcorn from his own packet and tries to copy what Brendan's just done. The popcorn misses his mouth by a mile. "Seriously," he says, exasperated. "Does my face just repel popcorn or what?"

Brendan laughs. "No, you just can't aim for shit. Open your mouth."

"What?"

"Open," Brendan says, holding up another piece of popcorn. "I bet I'll get it in from here."

This time Ste couldn't smother his grin if he tried. "You want me to open my mouth," he says slowly, piling thick innuendo into his tone, "so you can put it in?"

Brendan blinks at him, then his eyes light up, and the smirk that spreads over his face is filthy.

"Yes," he says simply, and then he throws the popcorn across the room at Ste's open mouth, lands it dead centre. His face is smug again now, and dark. "How's it taste?"

"Salty," Ste says, deliberately sultry, and they exchange a look that's less smirk and grin and mirth, more something closer to heat.

It's dangerous.

Fortunately, Ste's phone rings, breaking the moment.

"Hello?" he says upon answering. Brendan looks away, busies himself with sweeping off the popcorn dust on the breakfast bar.

It's Connor, and he sounds like he's in the middle of a mob. "Hi babe, listen, I got stuck at this shoot and I'm running late. Can you and Brendan just meet me at the hotel?"

"Uh, okay," Ste says, frowning. "See you in a bit."

"Thanks. Love you."

Ste hangs up, looks over at Brendan.

"He wants us to meet him there."

Brendan reaches for his jacket and keys. "I'll drive."

The air's thick with ice when they step outside, and Ste wraps his arms around himself, shivering. "God, it's freezing."

"Snow's coming."

"That's what Doug says."

They reach Brendan's car parked in the courtyard of the club and Brendan pauses before he unlocks the doors, looks at Ste over the hood.

"Who's Doug?"

"The guy I work with in the deli," Ste says, jerking his thumb behind him at his shop.

"Ah, the little American fella?"

"Yeah," says Ste. He frowns in confusion. "How'd you know?"

Brendan looks awkward all of a sudden, eyes sliding away from Ste's face. "I was in there the other day. He said you had the afternoon off."

"Oh. Were you—were you looking for me?" he asks, feeling about as awkward as Brendan looks.

It's a stupid question, which Brendan confirms by gruffly answering, "I was getting a coffee." He looks at Ste again, his eyes unreadable, before glancing away, up at the empty club. "Still no offers on this place, huh?"

Ste joins him in looking up at it, shrugs. "Dunno. It's never been shut this long before. Hope someone buys it soon," he says, tightening his arms around himself as an icy breeze whips across him. "It's a bit annoying having to go into the city every time you want a night out."

"Is it busy when it's open?" Brendan asks, and he looks around, as if taking in the whole area with a single glance. "This is a small village."

"Small village, but it's full of students and this is the only club."

Brendan's eyebrows draw together at that, contemplative. "That's a good point."

Ste gives him a moment to get lost in his own thoughts before grumbling, "You letting me in or what? I'm freezing my balls off."

"You're a classy fella, Steven," Brendan says, grinning at him, the awkwardness of earlier filtering away.

Brendan drives slowly to the hotel, mindful of the icy roads, and he has his heating up so high that the chill melts from Ste's bones and leaves him relaxed in his seat, listening to the radio, watching the scenery.

The hotel's randomly busy for a Monday afternoon and they have to wait a good while for the elevator, standing together in a crowd, everyone around them weirdly silent and robotic in their corporate attire. He catches Brendan's eye as they're stood there and something about the situation makes him want to giggle, can see the same instinct reflected back at him on Brendan's tightly controlled expression.

They make it into the elevator with about three thousand other people and it's such a tight fit that Ste's pretty sure he's one misstep away from accidental fornication with any one of these strangers. He's being jostled around as everyone tries to squeeze in and stand in relative comfort and when he's jabbed in the back by someone's handbag, and in the side by at least three different elbows, he has nowhere to go but forward and into Brendan's space.

Brendan puts a hand on his hip to steady him, and for one crazy instant Ste forgets about all the other people around him, his entire focus narrowing down to that one point of contact.

After the—boring and mostly unnecessary, in Ste's opinion—meeting with the events manager to go over, once again, the projected guest count and the layout of the ceremony, Ste heads back to the lobby with Brendan and Connor.

Connor's phone rings before they've even stepped out of the elevator and he looks at the screen, grimaces and sighs. "I have to take this," he says as they cross the lobby to the exit. "Just give me a minute." He wanders off, barking into his phone, and Ste and Brendan take the opportunity to sit in one of the vacant sofas littering the reception area.

"I hate weddings," Brendan says, apropos of nothing.

Ste looks at him. "Yeah, you've already told me."

"No, I told you I didn't see the point of marriage." Brendan smiles. "Me hating weddings is new information."

"Right, go on, you grumpy sod," Ste says, rolling his eyes. "Why d'you hate weddings?"

"Where do I even begin?"

Ste considers him, his eyes narrowed. "You know, one day you're gonna meet someone who's gonna make you change your mind," he says, his tone levelled. He doesn't know how he knows this for sure, but he can't believe that anyone, even Brendan, could never fall in love.

Brendan gives him a look of mild amusement. "You reckon?"

"Yeah," says Ste firmly. "I bet you a hundred quid you'll meet someone in the near future who you'll want to spend the rest of your life with."

It's a bold statement, and it holds no weight, but he doesn't like thinking of Brendan all alone, for the rest of his life. Brendan deserves someone who'll make him happy. And someone deserves Brendan, and his body, and that voice, and the way he looks at you, makes you feel like the only person in the room.

Brendan raises an eyebrow at him. "Make it a thousand and you've got a bet," he says, offering his hand.

Ste huffs a laugh. "All right." He shakes Brendan's hand. "Deal."

Brendan's grip is firm, and he squeezes a bit, pulls Ste in so he can drop his voice, get a little dramatic. "Better start saving, kid." He releases Ste, leans back on the couch, coolly confident in his own inability to never fall in love. A heaviness settles in Ste's gut, something like sadness. "You'll be paying me that grand next time we meet."

He wonders when that will be; how long it'll take after he goes back to the States for Ste to see him again. Wonders if Brendan's looking forward to leaving, getting away from all of this, away from him.

He doesn't think so. A part of him, the most secret part, knows that Brendan likes being around him, more than he should. As long as no one says it out loud, there's no problem with it.

"Not unless I win," he says, and he's firm with this. Brendan might be confident, but Ste's certain. _Someone_ out there will catch Brendan's eye enough to help him fall.

The idea of it doesn't make him as happy as it should.

Brendan's brow is furrowed as he looks at him now. "What's your issue with this?"

"I just don't think it's possible that you'll never fall in love," Ste says, shrugging, and Brendan's expression changes to that of curiosity, intrigue.

"There's a lot of sentimentality in you."

"Yeah," says Ste, smiling, giving Brendan a little poke on the thigh. "Maybe I should lend you some."

Connor comes back before Brendan can respond, and he doesn't look happy.

"Babe, listen," he says, slumping into the couch opposite and scrubbing a hand over his face in frustration. "I'm sorry. I can't go with you to get the rings tomorrow."

"What? Why not?"

"This thing's come up, I have to deal with it." He looks at Ste with eyes full of apology. "Can you go on your own?"

"But it's London," Ste says weakly. He's never been out of Chester on his own before, let alone trying to navigate the capital.

"Why the hell are you buying your rings from London?" Brendan pipes up from beside him.

"Connor wanted them custom designed."

"Of course he did." He shoots Connor a look of fond exasperation. "Look," he says to Ste, "I'll drive you down there."

"No, it's fine. I can deal with it."

"He's right, Ste," Connor says, nodding and sitting forward in his seat. "You'll only get lost."

Ste tutts, going faintly red. "Oh that's nice, thanks."

"Well I'm not wrong, am I? You got lost in Debenhams the other week."

"It's got a funny layout!"

"I'll take you," Brendan says, authority in his voice, leaving no room for protests. "I've got nothing else on tomorrow."

It's either that, or Ste's on his own. And Connor's not wrong—he does get lost in department stores.

"Fine," he grumps. "Whatever."

But it means a whole day with Brendan away from the village, away from Chester, away from people who know them. A whole day with Brendan and no one else.

He doesn't know how he's supposed to feel about it, but he's pretty sure quietly excited isn't it.

::: :::

"Why are you always up?" is the first thing Brendan says to him when he comes into the living room at gone midnight later that night. He's wearing loose sweats and a white vest, bare feet, because apparently he listened to Ste—he hasn't been out tonight, stayed in to have dinner with them, watch telly with them, went to bed at a decent hour.

But like Ste, the early nights are always just good intentions.

"I'm a bit of a night owl," Ste mumbles. "What's your excuse?"

"The nightclub business for the past ten years," Brendan says dryly. He sits beside Ste on the couch, Ste lifting his feet to make room for him. But his toes are cold tonight, and he immediately wedges them under Brendan's thigh.

"Right," says Ste, while Brendan takes a moment to tug the material of Ste's trousers down over his ankles from where it had ridden up in the movement, then he lifts his thigh a little to tuck Ste's feet in further against the cold.

"What time do you want to head off tomorrow?"

"Dunno," Ste says around a yawn. "About ten? We can park in King's Cross and then get the Tube."

"Good plan, Batman."

They sit in silence for a minute or two. Brendan's hand is still wrapped around his ankle, gentle and unmoving. Ste wonders if he's aware, if it's deliberate.

"There's a restaurant there I'd like to take you to," Brendan says suddenly. His tone indicates he's been building up to the statement.

"What?"

"I don't get to go to London often these days," Brendan explains, looking at Ste with soft eyes. "But there's this Italian restaurant in Kensington that serves the best carbonara I've ever had." He pauses, and then adds, "I want to go there tomorrow for dinner. With you."

It's a request rather than an order, and Ste finds there's nothing within him that wants to refuse. "Okay."

"Okay. Good."

A thrill of something races through Ste's chest, makes his stomach lurch. Brendan's looking at his mouth again, and it takes him a moment to tear his gaze away.

"Where are we tonight?"

"Liverpool."

"Oh Jesus."

::: :::

**Five**

He's being gently shaken awake, and he stirs into consciousness slowly, blinking into the dim light and then into Brendan's face from where he sits on the edge of his bed, the white vest he's wearing exposing his muscles to Ste's view, the tattoo on his bicep.

It's too early to be faced with this image, and Ste scrunches his face up, rubs his fingers into his eyes.

"Come on," says Brendan, voice low.

Ste yawns. "What…what time is it?"

His brain's struggling to focus properly, and he's stuck on how it feels to wake up to Brendan beside him, looking into his face, his eyes soft.

"Nearly nine. You need to get up."

"God," he says, huffing. "Where's Connor?"

"Left early. Here."

And suddenly there's a cup of coffee in front of him. He sits up, unaware of the blanket dropping down to expose his bare chest until he catches Brendan looking at it.

"Thanks." He takes the coffee from him.

"You got ten minutes," Brendan says, getting up, "and then I'm coming in here with a bucket of water."

Ste frowns, says, "We don't even have a bucket."

"I'll find one!" Brendan calls back to him as he heads out to the living room.

Ste joins him in the kitchen some ten minutes later, and Brendan's fully dressed now, a black top on over his white vest, artfully torn jeans hung low on his hips.

Ste passes by him leaning against the breakfast bar doing something on his phone. "You're not wearing a suit today."

"Stellar observational skills you've got there."

Seeing him from the front now brings to light the low-cut vee of his top, exposing skin and hair and the hint of his pecs. Ste stares at it as he picks a couple of grapes from the bunch.

"What?" says Brendan suddenly.

Ste startles and looks up into his eyes. "Nothing."

"Right," says Brendan, clearly amused. He slips his phone into his pocket and reaches for his jacket draped over one of the stools. "Well when you've finished counting my chest hair, maybe we can get a move on."

"I wasn't counting your—oh fuck off," Ste says, burning red, and Brendan laughs.

They get into the car and head out of the village, Brendan turning the heating on against the chill of the December air. It's not until they're cruising along the motorway that Ste's struck with a sudden thought.

"I should take your number."

Brendan glances at him out the corner of his eye. "You reckon."

"Well what if we get separated in London?"

"Why would we get separated?"

"I dunno. You never know. Maybe you'll get distracted by some hot young thing hanging around outside a bathroom."

"Pretty sure I'll be able to control myself long enough to tell you where I'm going," Brendan says, smirking. "Although knowing you," he adds, voice crawling to a drawl, "you'll be in there watching."

Ste blushes again, but he laughs with it. "Shut up."

Brendan digs into his pocket for his phone, hands it over. "Here."

Ste keys his number into the phone, then calls himself from it to get Brendan's number. He goes back to the phone's menu, and he's about to lock the screen and hand the phone back, but the message icon is right there, staring at him, tempting him.

He clicks on it.

There's only one message there, sent from Brendan to his friend Anne. All other messages, whether incoming or sent, have been deleted. The one message, sent less than an hour ago, says:

_I don't know, but I'm fucked if I'm not careful._

It could be about anything, and there's no point trying to figure it out, although he can't help wondering what the situation is, what has Brendan so worried.

"What are you doing?" Brendan asks him now, tone mildly curious.

"Reading your texts," Ste mumbles.

"Anything good?"

"No," says Ste, closing the message box. "You're dead boring."

He opens the camera and holds the phone up at arm's length in front of his face, Brendan side-eyeing him with his brows drawn.

"What are you doing now?"

"Taking a picture for my caller ID," Ste says, then snaps the picture. He puts Brendan's phone down in his lap and retrieves his own phone, opens the camera and aims it at Brendan. "Smile."

Brendan sticks up his finger. Ste takes the picture anyway.

"Nice," he says, assigning the picture to the contact. "Says it all really."

By the time they arrive in London, Ste and Brendan are deep in a discussion about Brendan's past. He's told Ste about his sister, a bright, bubbly girl he obviously misses, and the things they used to do together as a kid, getting into trouble with their dad, Brendan often taking the blame. He talks about days on the pier with his friends, and roaming the streets of Dublin looking for mischief, and running from the guards at least once a weekend because shoplifting and petty vandalism was how you earned your respect back then. Ste asks him about his mum, and his school, and the kind of music he grew up listening to, and it's not until they reach King's Cross, and Ste remembers why they've come to London in the first place, that he realises he's not asked Brendan a single question about Connor, the one person who should have been at the forefront of his curiosity. Brendan grew up with Connor; he'll know things Connor would never think to tell him. This was a missed opportunity, but he doesn't feel as bad about it as he should.

They park at the station and go inside, purchase their tickets and head down to the Tube. The train pulls up almost immediately and they enter it, where it's packed and hot and horrible, and he's pressed against Brendan at his front and an old, sweaty, stinking man at his back, and he's pushing forward to try to get away from the smell and the sweat, only there's nowhere to go.

Suddenly Brendan takes hold of him, and he pulls him around and into the corner by the door, and he steps in close, crowding him, blocking him from the contact of other people and their filth. And all Ste can see now is Brendan, and he can feel his heat, and his soft breath on the side of his face, and he looks up into Brendan's eyes, shrouded in the shadow of this train, and he feels warmth wash over him at knowing that this is Brendan protecting him, looking after him, shielding him from the touch of others.

When they get off the Tube, Ste's almost crushed by the rush of the crowd and he panics slightly, hunching his shoulders and ducking his head as he tries to break through. Then Brendan's hand closes around his wrist and Ste's instinct has him shuffling in close, wrapping his other hand around Brendan's bicep and clinging on, letting Brendan lead him through and out into the cold shock of daylight.

"Told you I could lose you here," Ste says breathlessly when he feels like he can talk again. Brendan squeezes his wrist gently in reassurance, his thumb edging into Ste's palm, rubbing it.

"I wouldn't let it happen." It's another minute or two before he lets go.

They go to the jeweller's, where they're presented with the custom-designed rings sitting nestled in a black box.

"Nice," says Brendan, and Ste nods, not feeling much of anything. They're all right, he supposes. Rings are rings. He closes the box, gets ready to pay. Brendan stops him. "Don't you want to check it fits?"

"I dunno…" He looks around awkwardly, at the sales assistant giving him her bland smile, to the frown on Brendan's face. "Are you meant to do that?"

Brendan rolls his eyes. "No, Steven, you wait until you're standing before God and saying your vows before checking you've ordered the right size."

"All right, smartarse," Ste says, going faintly red.

"Here." Brendan takes the box from Ste's hand and opens it, retrieves the smaller ring. Then he lifts Ste's hand in his warm, gentle grip, and he takes the ring, and he slides it on to Ste's finger slowly, carefully.

Ste holds his breath. He daren't look up into Brendan's eyes.

When Brendan speaks, his voice holds a curious edge. "Looks good."

Ste swallows, and he nods, and pulls his hand from Brenda's grip and quickly tugs the ring off, puts it back in the box.

Very odd feeling, having Brendan be the first person to put that ring on his finger.

"What about Connor's though?"

"You'll have to just take the chance," Brendan says, and then he wanders off to look at watches while Ste pays with the cheque Connor had left for him. He gives the box to Brendan once they're outside, and he slips it into the inside pocket of his jacket, his brows drawn as if thinking something unpleasant.

"You hungry?" he asks, visibly shaking off whatever had been bothering him.

"Yeah, you wanna go to that restaurant you said?"

"No, we're going there for dinner," Brendan says. He looks up and down the street. "We can just get something small now."

"But then what are we gonna do for the rest of the day?"

"This is London, Steven." He smiles at him, eyes lighting up now. "What does everyone do when they come here?"

"See the sights?"

"See the sights. Come on," he says, tugging on Ste's arm. "Let's go get a travel card."

They buy their tickets and then stop at a small café for toasties and coffee before Brendan gets them back on the Tube again, keeps Ste protected from the crowds, and they make stops to see Buckingham Palace and The Tower of London and up onto the London Eye. Ste takes pictures everywhere, hundreds of them, tries to get Brendan in many of them but he's a sneaky bastard and always manages to duck away. Then he surprises Ste as they reach the top of the London Eye, pulls Ste in with his arm around his shoulder, the backdrop of London behind them, takes a picture of them both on his own phone.

They go to Madame Tussauds and Ste gets Brendan to take pictures of him standing next to Britney and Beyonce and Tom Cruise, then at a stall outside Ste buys novelty keyrings, hooks one to Brendan's belt loop. They head back to the river as the sun falls in the sky and walk along it for thirty minutes or so, Brendan talking about the other times he's been to London, the places he's visited, his favourite museums, the one memorable summer he spent running a club in Soho. He tells Ste he'll bring him back one day, take him to the places the tourists don't know about, the hidden gems of London he's discovered alone and with friends, make a weekend of it. Ste agrees to go, anticipation for it churning in his gut. They don't mention Connor, and when their hands brush together as they walk, Ste's not the only who notices, Brendan's eyes twinkling as he looks at him.

They sit for a while on a bench in a small park, watching people pass by under the canopy of twilight. It's more peaceful here away from the bustle of tourist traps and the air smells less like exhaust fumes, cleaner and richer with nature. Brendan's relaxed and peaceful beside him and when Ste shivers with the cold, he shifts closer on the bench, comes close, presses his body heat into Ste's side and asks him about Amy, and Tony, and what his life was like before Connor.

"Shame Connor couldn't be here today," Ste says during a lull in conversation. He feels compelled to talk about him now, because he's barely mentioned him all day, and there's an element of guilt setting in to his skin.

Brendan shifts a little on the bench beside him, doesn't speak or move away.

"I mean, not that you weren't…" Ste adds. "I had a good time with you."

Brendan looks at him, and he smiles, and there's an ease to him now, his eyes open and bright, as if he's different here, away from the flat. Less restrained. "Well it's not over yet," he says softly. "Time for dinner."

He gets up, and so does Ste, stretching the aches of the day out of his back.

"This place better be amazing, the way you're talking it up."

"It is." He puts a hand on the small of Ste's back, steers him forward. "It's so good that if you haven't come in your pants by the time we're through—"

"Oh my god, shut up."

They get back on the Tube, and Brendan leads him to a quiet street, and tucked away in a corner is a small, unassuming restaurant.

The food's amazing, as Brendan promised, but it's not holding Ste's attention quite as much as Brendan's face is when lit by candlelight.

"Seriously," Brendan says, and Ste doesn't think he's entirely oblivious to Ste's distraction, "try this."

He offers his fork to Ste, pasta caught on the end of it, and Ste leans forward and takes it into his mouth and doesn't look away from Brendan's glowing, candlelit gaze.

They order dessert, and Brendan decides to have an espresso, and halfway through the tiramisu Ste asks, "So what is it you're actually doing in America?"

Brendan's in the process of pouring umpteen sugars into his tiny cup of coffee. "I took a six-month lease on a club in Vegas."

"Wow," says Ste, suitably impressed by it.

"Yeah. The lease ended just when Connor called about being his best man." He smiles at Ste. "Perfect timing really."

There's a chance Ste might believe in destiny.

"Now what?" he asks.

"I'm not sure yet. I'll make a decision after the wedding."

Ste hesitates. "But you're going back to America?"

"Yeah." The look in his eyes when he gazes across at Ste now is carefully guarded. "There's not really anything here for me."

"There's Connor."

Brendan pauses, and then says, "Connor has you now." His tone holds a curious heaviness.

It starts raining as soon as they leave the restaurant, thin and light at first, gentle enough for them to walk through it as they head back to the Tube. But it escalates to a downpour in a matter of moments and Ste pulls the collar of his coat up against it, ducks his head, feels the rain seeping through and the Tube's not close enough for them to make it without getting drenched.

Brendan pulls him into the darkened doorway of a closed shop, pushes him into the corner and crowds in close to protect him against the rain. Always protecting him.

Ste looks up at him. There's a tiny raindrop clinging to his eyelashes, and his hair's a bit flattened, and his eyes are cast in shadow, and he's so beautiful that sometimes Ste can't think through the weight of it.

"I had a really good time today," he murmurs now, and it sounds like a secret here in this secluded corner, hidden from the rest of the world.

"Me too." Brendan smiles, but it doesn't look like a happy one. "Back to reality now though."

"What do you mean?"

Brendan lifts a hand to Ste's face, hesitates a moment before placing the very tips of his fingers against Ste's cheek, trails down to his jaw and rubs his thumb along the cut of it. "It's better if you don't know," he says, and Ste's leaning up on tiptoes before he has chance to consider it, breath caught in his throat and Brendan swallowing and leaning in, eyes drifting shut—

A startling clap of thunder tears through the night, making Ste jump and let out a small whimper. Brendan leans away from him, out into the street and then up at the sky.

"Come on," he says, taking Ste's hand. "Let's brave it now while it's not too bad." He pulls Ste out of the doorway and into the rain, and they hurry down the street to the station. The train's near enough empty when they get on so they manage to grab a seat; Ste's shivering with cold and rain and Brendan considers him, brows furrowed, before he peels off his coat and drapes it around Ste's shoulders, tugs the front together to try to warm him up.

The car ride back to the village is silent and thick with the unspoken, and eventually Ste falls asleep, the streetlights and the rain lulling him into a sense of calm.

When they get out of the car near the flat, the rain has stopped, and Ste gives Brendan his coat back.

"Here," he says, and Brendan's fingers close over his own as he takes it.

"Thanks."

They look at each other there in the courtyard of the abandoned club, one final moment before heading back to the real world. Brendan gives him a soft, knowing smile, a secret between them, and eventually they come away from the car and go home.

Connor's in, and he wanders out of the bedroom, yawning and rubbing his eyes. "Hey, you're back," he says, dropping a kiss on Ste's cheek. "Did you get them?"

"They're really nice. Brendan's got them in his pocket if you want to see." He feels exhausted all of a sudden, and there's a weight tugging on his heart, and he just wants to go to sleep, put this day to rest. "I'm going to bed. Long day."

He exchanges a glance with Brendan before he leaves. He doesn't think he's imagining the hint of melancholy in his eyes.

::: :::

**Six**

The flat's empty when he gets up the next morning, and he doesn't know if he's disappointed or relieved. He doesn't get much chance to wallow in it, though—a text from Tony saying he's back from his holiday has Ste calling over at the restaurant before going to work.

He knocks on the locked door, grinning when Tony spots him and rushes over to open it, stepping out and pulling him into a hug.

"Hey, good to see you."

"You too." Ste claps him on the back, pulls away to observe him. "Nice holiday?"

"Yeah. Recharged the batteries, you know." He swells his chest, flashing Ste a grin of pride. "Wrote my best man's speech while I was out there."

"Nothing embarrassing I hope," Ste says, laughing.

"_Everything_ embarrassing, my friend. You got the final headcount for the catering?"

"Yeah, I'll bring it over later. And we've got the tux fitting on Friday."

"Okay, great." He points a thumb over his shoulder. "You coming in for a coffee?"

"Yeah—" he says, and then he spots Brendan walking by, and his attention's caught. "Hey, Brendan," he calls, and when Brendan stops and looks across at him, Ste beckons him over. "Brendan, I want you to meet Tony, my best man. Tony, this is Connor's best man, Brendan."

Tony eyes him, shakes his hand. "Ah, my competition. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Brendan drawls, a vague frown on his brow.

"Where you headed off to?" Ste asks him.

Brendan cuts him a look that gives nothing away. "Nowhere special. I'll see you for dinner."

"You're actually gonna eat my food today?"

"You sold it to me yesterday with all your talk of meatballs and garlic."

The mention of yesterday makes Ste's blood heat, but he doesn't know if it's from embarrassment or the memory of how the day made him feel. He can read nothing in Brendan's expression, and it frustrates him.

Tony, oblivious, says jokingly, "Ste here definitely knows the way to a man's heart, doesn't he?"

"Uh, yeah." Brendan scratches his forehead, head bowed, meeting no one's eye now. "I'm gonna be late, so—"

"Yeah, see you," Ste says vaguely, watching him walk away.

Tony nudges him. "He seems nice."

"He's all right." He has no idea what else to say, how to put into words his opinion on Brendan without getting himself in trouble.

"Sticking around, is he?" Tony asks, and it's with a hint of bitterness that Ste says no, he's not, he's going back to the States after the wedding.

Leaving Connor without a best friend. Leaving him.

Although he doesn't say that part to Tony.

Connor comes into the deli later, surprisingly. He never pays Ste visits at work. But he's here today, and he gives Ste a grumpy kiss over the paninis.

"Feel like I haven't seen you properly for ages. You wanna go out for dinner tonight?"

"Ah I can't," Ste says awkwardly, goes back to laying out the brownies he baked that morning. "I already told Brendan I was making meatballs."

"Oh. Well tomorrow then?"

"Yeah, okay. We also need to sort out the music for the wedding."

Connor's face scrunches up. "Uh…Saturday?"

"It's Christmas this weekend, you idiot," Ste says, laughing a little.

"Shit, 'course it is. It'll have to be Friday then."

"I've got the tux fitting with Tony during the day," Ste reminds him.

"Yeah, and I've got a night shoot. Jesus."

Seems like finding time for this wedding is becoming an impossible feat these days.

"After Christmas?" Ste tries.

"Not really any other option, is there?" Connor grouches. He checks his watch. "Look, I've gotta go. I'll see you tonight." He plants another kiss on the corner of Ste's mouth before hurrying out.

Three seconds later, Ste's following him. He's planning on doing the Christmas food shop this afternoon, and he needs to ask Connor what alcohol he wants.

Only Connor's already vanished like a damn designer-clad ninja and Ste's left standing there, sighing, considering calling him instead.

Then his attention's caught by Brendan once again, who's now making his way down the steps that lead to the flats above the deli. Ste walks over to him, frowning in confusion.

"What were you doing up there?"

Brendan stops at the bottom of the steps, puts his hands in his pockets. "Just checking something out."

"Tony lives up there," Ste says suspiciously. "You weren't trying to scope out the competition, were you?"

Brendan blinks, then shakes his head. "What competition are we supposed to be having, exactly?"

"Fuck if I know," Ste says, laughing. "Best stag night maybe? Tony's a bit intense about being the best at everything."

"Right, good to know."

Brendan seems lighter, less guarded, now that they're alone. His expression more open, his eyes brighter.

"Don't worry," Ste teases, giving the front of Brendan's shirt a little tug, "I'm sure you can more than hold your own."

"I wasn't worried, but thanks." Brendan smiles at him, and stares at him for a moment, before his eyes clear and he takes a breath. "What are you doing now?"

"About to go shopping actually. Christmas food. You?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nope," says Brendan. "Free agent."

The way he says it gives Ste the impression that maybe he's hinting, and Ste, tummy swirling pleasantly, goes with it.

"Do you wanna, uh…give me a hand?"

"Food shopping?" Brendan asks, and Ste nods. "No."

"Oh…"

"I hate supermarkets."

"I get it."

He goes to take a step back, inappropriately disheartened by the blunt rejection. Stupidly, a part of him assumed Brendan would always want to spend the time with him, regardless of what they were doing. Recent events have given him a false sense of importance, it seems.

His step back leads him into the path of Mercedes McQueen. He didn't see her coming, but he feels her wrath as he steps on the toes of her bright pink, sky-high heels. She snarls at him and spits venom before stomping off, Ste and Brendan watching her go with their eyebrows raised.

Funny, really, how oblivious he is to other people whenever he's looking at Brendan.

Funnier still that Brendan didn't notice her approach.

The interlude has filled him with a bit of his previously dwindling confidence, and he steps up to Brendan again, adopts a slow half-smile. "What if I begged?" he asks, dropping his voice. Brendan's eyes narrow for him, twinkling. "You know Connor better than me. You must've had tons of Christmases with him. You know what he eats and drinks and everything."

"You don't know this stuff?"

"I've never spent Christmas with him before."

"Right," says Brendan, tilting his head to the side. "Because you've only known him for six months. And you're marrying him."

"You really need to get over that."

"I think you're both idiots."

"I'm aware." He smiles again, and he pinches the front of Brendan's shirt in his fingers, pulls on it. "Are you coming then?"

Brendan blows out a huffing breath, rubs his forehead. "Fine," he grumps, hand coming up to Ste's forearm where he's holding his shirt, curls his fingers around the bones of his wrist. "But you'll owe me."

Ste grins, heart lifting high in his chest. "Yep, sure, forever in your debt."

"Don't think I won't cash in, Steven," Brendan says, smirking, and he takes the first step forward as Ste pulls on his shirt.

Ste leads him along by his shirt, walking backwards, grinning up into the expression of soft amusement on Brendan's face. "Just tell me when," he croons, Brendan's eyes flashing in response. And then he catches sight of Doug watching him funnily through the window of the deli, and he suddenly realises what he's doing, how this must look.

He lets go and turns, Brendan eyeing him curiously at the abruptness of it.

::: :::

Food shopping with Brendan is an experience. He pushes the trolley along like he's heading for the gallows, scowling at everything, sighing obscenely loudly whenever Ste takes just a bit too long to choose an item. Ste's endlessly amused by it, takes the piss out of him, calls him Grandpa and Grumpy and Princess, gets filthy looks and pokes in the ribs for his trouble. He doesn't brighten until they reach the cake aisle, and Ste ends up with a trolley full of diabetes, shakes his head and rolls his eyes each time Brendan drops another dose of sugar in there.

They have a minor scuffle at the checkout when packing, Ste trying to create some kind of order while Brendan throws everything in haphazardly. He plants his hands flat on Brendan's chest and pushes him back and tells him to stay put and keep his hands off, and Brendan's eyes are dancing for him, amused and darkened and making Ste's heart skip.

They get home and Brendan helps him unpack and they edge around each other in the kitchen, knocking together and sliding past, Brendan's hand gliding over his hip as he reaches around him to put the milk away, fingertips slipping under the hem of his t-shirt.

Afterwards he makes Brendan wash his hands and then sets him up with a bowl of mince and flour and onions and herbs, shuffles in next to him in the corner and shows him how to make a meatball.

"Once you've squashed it into a meatball shape," he says, demonstrating, "just roll the ball in your hands until it's nice and tight."

Brendan smirks and Ste looks up at him, face warming, breathing a laugh.

"Why does everything I do with you sound like innuendo?"

"Guess I just have that effect on you," Brendan murmurs.

"Hello, people," Connor says, coming in. Ste didn't even hear the door open. He steps away from Brendan. "This smells _good_, Jesus. Brendan—are you actually cooking right now?"

"I'm making meatballs," he says, holding up a lump of mince. "Cooking's a bit of an overstatement."

Connor comes up behind Ste and places a kiss on the side of his neck. "Who knew you'd be the one to domesticate big, bad Brendan Brady."

Ste snorts. "There's nothing big or bad about him."

"Uh oh," says Connor to Brendan. "He's seen through your bullshit. You're losing your touch."

"Well fuck me," Brendan says mildly, too busy making the perfect meatball to react any further to Connor's teasing.

Ste suddenly feels claustrophobic here in this little kitchen, with Brendan and his dexterous hands moulding the meat on one side, Connor crowding in close behind. "Shut up the pair of you and get out of my kitchen," he says, and Brendan casts him a woeful look.

"But…I was helping."

"And now you're just in the way," Ste says, flapping his hands at the pair of them to get them out.

Brendan glares at Connor. "You ruin all the fun."

Ste makes dinner while Connor and Brendan watch football, like the manly men they think they are, and after they sit and eat and have too much wine. Brendan does the dishes while Ste sits at the breakfast bar and talks to him, Connor vanishing like he always does when the topic of household chores presents itself, and then they put on a film and the three of them squash onto the couch to watch it.

Connor takes his hand halfway through the movie, but it's Brendan's arm brushing against his on the other side that makes his tummy flip, and he doesn't pay much attention to the film, his mind toiling with confusion.

::: :::

**Seven**

Christmas comes and goes.

He goes with Tony to the tux fitting on the Friday, and then they have lunch together, and he spends the evening putting up Christmas decorations alone with Brendan. He puts on festive music, which Brendan grumbles about, but he spends ages manipulating the branches of the tree into the correct angles, so Ste doesn't think he's as averse to the holiday as he makes out. They hang lights around the tree and then tinsel and balls, and Ste takes a picture of Brendan placing the star on top. He gets up on a chair after to hang garlands around the room, Brendan holding his waist the whole time to ensure he doesn't fall, giving him the odd inappropriate tickle to make him jolt and nearly slip, laughing each time he steadies him.

Connor doesn't come home until late and when he does, he goes straight to bed, barely commenting on the decorations. Brendan and Ste sit up and watch telly and eat mince pies, then Brendan gets out a deck of cards and tries to teach Ste how to cheat at poker. It dissolves into Brendan calling him useless, and then Ste's throwing all the cards at him in mock offense, and then he's on the floor sheepishly picking them up, crawling around; he feels Brendan's eyes on him and there's a chance he might stick his bum out a bit more, curve his back low like a bow. When he looks back at Brendan over his shoulder his eyes are dark, and they're pinned on him.

They get out another bottle of wine and they stick on _Elf_ because Brendan's never seen it and Ste thinks that's a tragedy, and it's three in the morning before Ste's dozing off, vaguely aware of Brendan tucking a blanket around him and brushing fingers through his hair, before switching the TV off and going to bed.

He wakes up much later in solitude and darkness, teeth chattering with cold. The surface beneath him is hard like stone, unforgiving against his bones. He tries to sit up but he can't get the leverage, can't get his hands on the ground to push because they're tied, trapped behind his back. Panic floods him, and the adrenaline aids him in rolling to his side and lifting up on one strained elbow. He can't see much, but he can see the sharp glint of metal bars surrounding him on all sides and above.

He's in a cage, and he can't move.

A whimper escapes him, and then he freezes when footsteps echo in the silence. He sits there unmoving, as if doing so will render him invisible; then the footsteps draw closer before coming to a sudden stop. He doesn't know where this person is, and the cold is seeping into his bones, and terror is rising within him like a tide.

He can't stop the shout from bursting out of his mouth when something thunks onto his head from above. He hisses as pain blossoms, feels what could be the dent of broken skin beginning to seep blood instantly, and the thing that hit him rolls away on the ground before resting in the corner of this cage.

He squints through the darkness, frowning when he realises what the thing is.

It's a coin. A single, perfectly rounded coin.

He's barely made the discovery before another one hits the top of his head like a leaded weight and he grunts with the pain, trying to duck away from it. The second coin rolls off him and in the opposite direction, and then another hits his head, and then another, and then they start falling like rain all over him and around him, breaking his skin and catching painfully against bone.

He cries out against the storm of it, hundreds of these gold and silver coins thundering down around him, tries to curl into a ball and duck his head in and beg for it to end—only he can't speak. He can shout and he can scream but he can't say words. Each time he tries to say _stop_ or _please_ or _no_, it's as though something solid and invisible compresses his tongue, choking him.

A sudden pinpoint of light catches his eye and he stares at it like a lifeline. It's a light coming from nowhere, and it's settled on one single spot a metre away from this cage. The light is there to show Ste a key, the key to this cage, the most beautiful key he has ever seen, and he sobs for it and pulls on the rope tying his arms but he can't get it, this perfect key he wants so much, more than anything else in all of existence—he can't get it, because he's trapped in this cage, and his hands are tied, and there's something stopping him from speaking, and all around him coins fall like a stampede, filling this cage, drowning him in gold—

"Steven!"

Ste comes into consciousness all at once and the relief that floods him is so powerful he can't contain it. He reaches out blindly and grabs hold of the arm shaking him awake, pulls on it as he half sits and half collapses against a solid chest, buries his face in the curve of shoulder and neck. He's being surrounded by the strong arms of protection and he breathes against warm skin, shaking, willing the terror of his nightmare away.

"You okay?"

The voice in his ear is not Connor's. It's the warm timbre of Brendan's murmur and he should pull away now but he doesn't, not yet, just a few more moments.

"Hey," says Brendan, and he's smoothing a hand up and down Ste's back, rubbing the relief of reality into his skin, his scent here in the curve of his neck washing through Ste's senses like a cleansing tonic.

When his heart rate returns to something resembling normal, he pulls back, looks into Brendan's face. Embarrassment edges at him but he ignores it. He's had a nightmare, and Brendan's awoken him. There's nothing to be ashamed of.

Brendan's sitting on the edge of the couch beside him, facing him, and he looks concerned. He raises a hand and drags it through Ste's hair before settling it on the back of his neck as if needing the anchor.

"You okay?" he repeats, searching Ste's eyes for the truth.

He's so close that Ste can count his every eyelash.

"Yeah," he croaks. He scrubs both hands over his face, brushes away the last remnants of sleep. "Sorry."

"No need for sorry." Brendan releases him, but he doesn't immediately get up. "Bad dream?"

Ste nods. "Dunno what it was about really." The images are fading rapidly, slipping through his memory like water. He remembers fear, and pain, and the most beautiful light just out of reach. "Didn't mean to get you out of bed."

"I was already up."

Brendan sits up with him for a few minutes, and then they both go to bed, and when Ste next wakes up it's Christmas Eve morning and the chill in the air has him putting on thick socks and his biggest hoodie.

He's in the bathroom and he hasn't locked the door so Brendan comes in, and they end up standing there brushing their teeth together, Brendan looking at him in the mirror with that same concern.

"I'm okay," Ste says around his toothbrush, "really," and the tension eases from Brendan's brow and he flicks water at Ste and then Connor's stumbling in after his run, grumpy and sweaty, asking what's going on, and this room isn't big enough for three so Ste leaves.

He spends the day preparing and cooking food and when his eyes water from the onions, Brendan's there suddenly, tipping his face up in his hands, looking at him darkly.

"Just the onions," Ste says, holding a piece up in demonstration, and Brendan brushes his thumbs under Ste's eyes to gather the moisture there before calling him a baby and leaving.

Brendan and Connor get tipsy on whiskey in the afternoon and they get louder and louder as they exchange stories and memories and talk about the good old days, and Ste watches them with fondness and a little exasperation as he brings them Christmas cake and mince pies and cheese on crackers in an attempt to soak up some of the alcohol. As evening falls Connor goes for a nap which turns into a full sleep and Ste ends up the sober one in a room full of half-drunk Brendan, who's loose on alcohol and smooth talking and overly handsy as he tries to help Ste lay the table for Christmas dinner the next day, brushing over Ste's hips and his back as they pass each other around the table, fingers catching as they exchange cutlery and napkin holders.

By the end of it Ste's blood is thrumming with heat and Brendan's eyes are dark and there's a moment when Ste tries to enter the kitchen while Brendan's exiting and they come to a standstill, staring at each other, inches apart. Ste licks his lips and he swallows and Brendan tracks the movement, before he clears his throat and his mouth parts on an intake of breath and they edge around each other, thighs and shoulders brushing.

Amy comes over the next morning and they all sit around and open their presents like children, lots of fake enthusiasm and gratitude over the naff gifts. Alcohol makes a reappearance straight after breakfast and Ste and Amy head to the kitchen after, because she's a better assistant than both the men combined, and by the time Christmas lunch is served, everyone's more than a little tipsy already.

They while the afternoon away watching crap Christmas TV specials and eating all their weight in food and by the time Amy leaves, Connor's passed out drunk, and Ste's practically leaning back on Brendan's lap as the room spins around him.

"For all his talk," Brendan drawls, his vaguely slurring voice rumbling through Ste from where his back is pressed against Brendan's thigh, "he's never really been able to handle his liquor."

Ste peers over at Connor slumped across the armchair, his mouth hanging open, head fallen to one side. "Can you help me get him to bed? He's basically in a coma."

Ste and Brendan peel themselves off the couch and stumble a bit, laughing and grabbing each other to steady themselves, then they each grab a hold of an end of Connor and lift him away from the armchair, groaning under the weight of him.

"Jesus, how much did he eat today?" Brendan grunts as they shuffle towards the bedroom, missing the angle by an inch or so as they try to negotiate the doorway, Connor's head thwacking against the frame. Brendan laughs, mutters, "Shit," and once they've dumped Connor on the bed and thrown the quilt over him, he looks at Ste with his eyebrows raised. "More alcohol?"

Ste nods at the obviously genius plan. "More alcohol."

They tussle at the drinks cabinet, Ste with his head inside it trying to find a good bottle and Brendan crowding behind, one hand on Ste's hip, as he attempts to reach past him for what he wants. Ste can feel Brendan's groin against his arse but then Brendan's distracting him by grabbing for a bottle of whiskey, and Ste tutts and tries to tug it away from him.

"No, you're not having whiskey. You always drink whiskey. We're having tequila. Live a little."

"Says the infant."

"Hey, I'm twenty-three—" He turns and he's flat against Brendan's chest and he's still trying to wrestle the whiskey from his grip but he's not letting it go. "Put that _down_."

He eventually manages to snatch it from his hand and hide it behind his back. Brendan makes a grab for, but Ste holds it out of reach, and their entire bodies clash together.

Brendan stops and takes a breath. "Do you honestly think you're tall enough to keep that out of my reach?"

"No," says Ste. "But getting it means you'll have to get really close to me and I know you don't want to risk that." It's the closest anyone's come to saying it out loud and Ste holds his breath for the response.

Brendan stares at him. There's a storm churning in his eyes. "Tequila it is."

"Shots," says Ste, and he breaks away from Brendan to find shot glasses and lime and salt, heart pounding the thrill of excitement into his ribs.

They end up sprawled on the floor, Ste with his head resting back against the front of the couch, Brendan reclining beside him, propped up on one elbow.

"To Santa," Brendan says, and then they each lick the dusting of salt they've sprinkled on their hands and drink the shots, sucking on lime pieces after to chase the taste.

"Why do you wear this?" Ste asks him during a moment of quiet minutes later, hand lifting to trace his fingers over the cross resting against Brendan's chest.

Brendan looks down at Ste's hand touching him, then up into his eyes. "I like it."

"Are you religious?"

"Depends on your definition," Brendan murmurs. They're sitting so close together that they can keep their voices low, secretive. "I believe in god, and I try to live by a moral code. Not always the _best_ moral code…"

Ste licks his lips, tangles the necklace around his finger so it's pulling at the skin of Brendan's neck, creating an indent, making him lean forward slightly, into Ste's space. "What does your code say about getting drunk with your best friend's fiancé?"

Brendan stares at him, then his eyes flick down to Ste's mouth, and then he's running the very tip of a finger along Ste's jaw. "There's a lot of ways my best friend's fiancé is testing my code."

"Like what?" Ste's breath is caught in his throat.

Brendan hesitates, and he keeps his eyes on Ste, and when he speaks it's with an edge of caution in his tone. "This is a dangerous subject."

"Getting drunk with you is dangerous." He swallows, and he pulls on the necklace, and he tilts his face to feel the warmth of Brendan's breath across his lips. "Makes boundaries harder to see."

Brendan dips his face the barest of an inch, enough that his nose ghosts over Ste's, and the finger on his jaw comes up to Ste's mouth, traces over his bottom lip, presses on it to make him part his lips. Ste's tongue edges forward, and he tastes skin, and Brendan's eyes on his mouth are burning. "You ever done a body shot?"

"Yeah."

Brendan gets his fingers on Ste's jaw again and tilts his face up, and then he's leaning forward and licking a stripe up Ste's neck, and Ste's breathless with it, and he's so drunk, and the wet heat of Brendan's tongue against his neck is making his heart hammer and his head spin, blood rushing to his groin, hardening him. Brendan reaches for the salt shaker then, and he's sprinkling it on the wet stripe of Ste's neck, and he's propping a slice of lime between Ste's teeth and swigging his shot straight from the bottle as if he doesn't have time for pouring a glass. Then he leans straight back in, and he's licking the salt off Ste's neck, and Ste's heaving a shuddering breath and pulling hard on the necklace to draw him closer as Brendan's lips close over his pulse point and suck. Then Brendan's face is in front of his, and he's coming in close, and he's sucking the lime from between his teeth, the juice trailing down Ste's chin and Brendan pulls away and spits the lime out and comes back in to lick up the juice, misses Ste's lips, perhaps deliberately—gets his thumb and swipes the stickiness from his lips instead, sucks the thumb into his own mouth.

When it's over Ste's throbbing hard and his head's spinning and he rolls his hips up on instinct, doesn't care how wanton and out of his mind he looks, and Brendan notices, and he looks down at Ste's groin, then back up to his face, and his eyes are scalding, burning for him, his neck flushing through with heat.

"Are you gonna touch yourself?" he asks.

And Ste considers it, actually considers it, because he's so hard, and he's so crazy with it. "Are you gonna watch?"

Brendan dips in, and he presses his forehead to Ste's temple, breathes hot against his ear. "Seems only fair to repay the favour."

Then he's taking hold of Ste's wrist, and he's guiding Ste's hand down his body towards his dick, and Ste can't believe he's going to do this, touch himself in front of Brendan, touch himself _for _Brendan—

Connor comes stumbling out of the bedroom, crashing into almost everything in sight, and Ste and Brendan don't so much spring apart as they do peel themselves away from each other, slowly and without panic, Ste's head too full of hazy arousal and intoxication to make him worry.

Connor squints at them. "What are you doing?"

"Body shots," Ste says dumbly.

"Body—what?" Then he falls into a wall

"Jesus, you're drunk," Ste says, sighing, and he heaves himself to his feet, doesn't look at Brendan. "Let me help you."

He meets Brendan again in the middle of night, under the cover of darkness and shadow as he leaves Connor in bed and goes to the bathroom, Brendan heading in the opposite direction to bed. They stop in the middle of the room, and they look at each other, and Ste's fingers twitch and ache with need.

"It was just the alcohol," he whispers, and Brendan swallows and says, "I know."

"He's your best friend. It's not worth it."

Brendan crowds in close, and Ste's breath hitches, and then Brendan's leaning down to murmur hot and thick into his ear, "You're getting under my skin, Steven."

Ste licks his lips. His hand finds its way to a fist in the front of Brendan's shirt. "You're just drunk."

Brendan smiles at him, and it looks sinful. "_In vino veritas_," he whispers, and he pulls away from Ste, and he goes to his bedroom, leaving Ste alone and trembling in the darkness.

Ste doesn't know what that means, but it doesn't sound good.

Or maybe it does, and that's the problem.

::: :::

Everyone's nursing a headache the next day, but even on Boxing Day Connor has to work so he leaves after lunch, and Brendan disappears for the rest of the day. He didn't catch Brendan's eye during the brief time they spent sharing the kitchen, getting coffee and headache tablets, and when Connor comes back that night, Ste overcompensates with his affection for him, feeling a weird twist of guilt. And when Connor takes him to bed and goes down on him, Ste lets him, even though he's not feeling it, forcing an orgasm out with thoughts of eyes and mouth and skin and hands that look nothing like Connor's, building on his guilt.

He gets out of bed later when Connor's asleep, creeps into the darkness and chill of the living room, looks around for the blanket and can't find it, puts on the oversized hoodie he finds instead. It's not until he's snugly wrapped up in it watching TV that he realises it's Brendan's—he can smell him, seeping into his senses and making his skin tingle.

Brendan comes in sometime later, like he always does, and there's a curious quiet to him. Ste can't read him, doesn't even know how much he remembers of the night before, and when Brendan does little more than drop his keys on the counter and offer Ste a brief, vacant smile, Ste says, "Where've you been?"

"Spent the day with Anne."

Ste nods, and he hopes it's the truth. Hopes Brendan's not been out walking the streets alone all day, avoiding him. "You have a good time?"

"It was nice, yeah," Brendan mutters vaguely. "I'll put the kettle on."

He comes back with two mugs of hot tea, hands one to Ste as he sits beside him.

"Thanks," Ste says, and this feels so surreal and normal that he can't wrap his head around it.

Brendan nods at the telly. "Where are we tonight?"

"Edinburgh," Ste says after taking a moment to think. He hasn't really been paying attention to it.

"Nice up there."

"Never been."

"You should go," Brendan says. "Get Connor to take you."

He feels Brendan's mention of Connor is deliberate, bringing the man into the room with them, a barrier. A reminder of why last night was the worst night, and not the kind of night that Ste can still remember every detail of, feel every touch.

He swallows. "Look, about what happened…"

Brendan shoots him a look that's almost begging him to shut up. "Do you really want to talk about that?"

"I just—" says Ste, because yes, he does, he really does. "We'd had a lot to drink, things got a bit weird—"

"It's fine," Brendan says, his tone mildly snappish.

Ste holds his breath, stares at the side of Brendan's face. "I'm marrying your best friend," he says, but he's saying it for the wrong reasons and he knows it. He's not saying it to remind Brendan of why last night was wrong, why what he's feeling is dangerous and massively inappropriate.

He's saying it because he wants a reaction from Brendan, a hint as to how he's feeling, what he's thinking about, how he's managing getting close and hot and thrilling with Ste one minute, discussing best man duties with Connor the next.

When Brendan looks at him now, Ste sees it—the turmoil, the guilt, but above all—smothering everything—the conflict. The anger. The _I want_ and the _can't have_. "So you keep reminding me."

Ste looks at him, and Brendan looks back, and there's something like sadness settling in his gut, making him smile gently without a trace of mirth.

"You know what's funny?" he asks, his tone soft. "I met Connor the night of your leaving party. I'd only just missed you apparently."

Brendan blinks, and his eyes lose focus for a moment as he works it out, and then something like pain flashes across his face. "So you're saying if I'd stayed another five minutes…"

"Or I'd arrived five minutes earlier… Yeah."

They don't need to finish the thought. It's agonisingly clear. In some other universe, in another life, this could have been a completely different story.

It's with a gut-wrenching twist of renewed guilt that Ste allows himself to admit, quietly in his own head, that he would never have even noticed Connor that night if Brendan had been there.

The sadness Ste feels is reflected on Brendan's face and he runs the back of his finger across the sleeve of his hoodie Ste's wearing. "Looks good on you," he murmurs.

"I was cold."

They smile quietly to each other, a moment of pure understanding, and then they leave it, let it go. Settle back on the couch, put their feet up on the table, and watch the telly in silence.

Connor gets up a while later, in need of the toilet and a glass of water, and when he comes back to the living room, he collapses onto the armchair and squints across at them both.

"What are you two doing up?"

"Couldn't sleep," Ste mumbles.

"I've just got in," says Brendan.

Connor looks at the telly. "What's this shit you've got on?" he asks, leaning over to snatch the remote off the arm of the sofa, switching the channel over.

"Give us the fucking remote back," Brendan snaps, and there's an unwarranted anger in his tone that concerns Ste. "We were watching that."

Connor gives them a curious look, eyes scanning over the pair of them, brows drawn.

Ste realises how it looks. He and Brendan are sat close together on the couch, feet up on the table beside each other and touching, each of them holding a mug of tea, and he's wearing Brendan's hoodie.

They look like a couple. Cosy.

He suddenly feels overwhelmingly uncomfortable.

"I'm going to bed actually," he says and he gets up and leaves them, the weight of Brendan's heavy gaze following him.

::: :::

**Eight**

The next week is uncomfortable. Everything's changed. Ste's painfully aware of this thing between them now, can't get away from it no matter how many distractions he tries. They've spoken of it out loud, brought it into the glaring light of reality.

They edge around each other as if afraid of rocking the boat. There's an undercurrent of anger in Brendan now, an edge of tension in everything he does, everything he says. It's like the sight of Ste infuriates him, and yet he can't keep away. He's snapping at him about something even as he's gliding a hand over the small of Ste's back to get past him. He doesn't speak when they sit together at night watching the telly, but he sits close, and there's always some kind of touching, and it's like he hates every moment of it even as he pushes for more, challenges the boundaries. His eyes watch Ste wherever he moves, following him as he cooks or cleans or leaves to go to work, where he'll then look up and find Brendan walking slowly past the deli, looking in, branding him with that heat in his eyes.

And beneath the rush of heat thrumming in Ste's veins all the time now, he feels so guilty, because Connor's done so much for him and he doesn't deserve this, having this go on under his nose. Connor's working too much in the lead up to New Year because he's taking the first two weeks of January off for the wedding and honeymoon, says he wants to get on top of things so he doesn't need to worry when he takes his break. But it leaves Ste and Brendan home alone a lot of the time, the pair of them itching with this tension, the silence of the unspoken. He knows Brendan's making the effort to be absent as much as possible, but when he's home things are tense in the most painful, exquisite way. Ste can't breathe with it, always on edge, always waiting for the next snap of anger from Brendan, waiting for the next deliberate, slow, lingering touch.

Things come to a head eventually, developing into an argument in the kitchen one evening. Ste doesn't even know what they're bickering about, but it gets Brendan worked up enough to take Ste by the hips suddenly and push him against the counter.

"You've never even asked me about him," he hisses, and it has nothing to do with what they were arguing about, this random accusation spewing out of Brendan as if he's been holding it in, keeping it locked in the cage of his brain.

Ste's head's still spinning with the abrupt change and the counter's digging into his back, and Brendan's eyes are a storm of unresolved desperation, and his voice barely has any sound when he says, "What?"

Brendan's fingers tighten on his hips, and he bares his teeth for an instant. "No one knows Connor better than me, and yet you've never once asked me to tell you any stories." He tilts his head to the side, dips his face lower to Ste's. "His childhood," he adds, voice dropping to a vicious murmur. "Growing up. What he used to do, the places he went, memories of school." He smiles, and it looks twisted. "All the things a man in love would want to know about the person he's marrying."

Panic rises in Ste and he wants to get away, couldn't move if paid. "That doesn't mean anything."

"Doesn't it?" Brendan croons, eyes flashing burning fire. "You've wanted to know every detail of my life."

"I was just getting to know you," Ste says, almost pleading. "You're Connor's best friend."

It makes Brendan huff a mirthless laugh.

"That's your safety blanket. The same thing you parrot out every time things get a little dangerous."

Ste narrows his eyes, because this feels like a personal attack now, and he's not interested in having his motives flayed open and scrutinised. "It's the only thing that matters," he says firmly, puts his hands on Brendan's chest to push. "This has to stop."

Brendan resists Ste's attempts to get him away, presses in closer, smothering him from thigh to chest. He drags his hands up Ste's sides, and he rolls his hips forward, and the twisted gleam of triumph glints in his eyes.

"You're hard," he murmurs, dipping his face down lower, speaking almost into Ste's mouth. "You're hard for me."

He's not lying; Ste's dick is pulsing with heavy arousal, reacting to Brendan's proximity, the sultry growl of his voice. He's as hard as Brendan is right now, nestled against his thigh.

"Being attracted to you doesn't mean I should throw away my marriage," he says on a shuddery breath, and Brendan's eyes narrow, something about what he's just said wiping away the heat.

"You're right, Steven." He pulls away suddenly, and he steps back, leaving Ste trying to catch his breath against the counter. "He's my best friend. And right now you're fucking him over."

"That's not fair," Ste snaps, anger flooding him, refusing to carry all of this on his shoulders alone. "I'm not the only one to blame here."

Brendan considers him. Ste can see he's still hard. None of this is denting his reaction to Ste.

"I'm not the one marrying him."

It all rushes out of Ste on a wave of anger and pain, the one thought he's had that he can't voice, the one thing he's pretending is irrelevant, when really it's possibly the only thing that matters.

"No, you're never marrying anyone, remember? Because you don't believe in love or commitment or anything that's worth taking a gamble on you."

Then he storms out of the kitchen, leaves Brendan alone and seething, heads out of the apartment and straight through the village and keeps walking until his head's clear, and he can see straight, until all of this makes sense.

Only it never does, and when he makes it home again, Brendan's gone for the night.

::: :::

"Can't believe we're getting married in a week," Connor mutters, running his fingers through Ste's hair.

Ste's lying on Connor's chest in bed, eyes half shut, still mostly asleep. Connor woke up with more surprising spontaneity this morning, trying to coax Ste into a blowjob, but Ste wasn't in the mood and he didn't have the heart to fake it, so he declined, and they settled for a bit of a cuddle instead.

"I know," he mumbles now through a small yawn. "It's gone so fast."

Connor's silent for a while, threading his fingers through Ste's hair, chest rising and falling rhythmically beneath Ste's head, threatening to send him into another slumber.

"Listen, I'm sorry about all this with Brendan."

Ste blinks his eyes open, his stomach tensing slightly. "What d'you mean?"

"Having him here the past few weeks. I know it's been difficult to get any alone time."

He's had plenty of alone time, just with the wrong person.

Even if he's starting to feel that it's not the wrong person, just the wrong place in time. It's a thought he has no choice but to keep to himself, bury deep in the recesses of his brain, never look at it too closely.

"It's fine."

"He seems to like you a lot," Connor says. "It's weird."

"Is it?"

Ste holds his breath, shifts away from Connor a little so he can't feel his heart starting to race.

"Yeah, he doesn't really like anyone. But you… he talks about you a lot. He's taken an interest. If I didn't know better," he says, amusement in his tone that makes Ste glance up at him, "I'd probably be jealous."

The feeling swelling within Ste now is distinct and thick and cold. It feels like loss, the loss of something he never had to begin with.

"He's a nice guy," he forces out, settling down on Connor's chest again. "I like him."

"He'd be a good friend to you if you let him. Once he cares about someone, there's nothing he won't do to make you happy." He hums contemplatively. "He's done so much for me in the past."

The burn prickles behind Ste's eyelids and he blinks it away furiously, hating himself, angry at his own reaction. He shifts up on to his elbows and pastes a smile on his face for Connor.

"Can't imagine anyone doing as much for me as you have." He dips down for a soft kiss, swallows against the lump in his throat when this kiss gives him nothing. But he continues, because he made his choice long before Brendan came along and twisted him up from the inside. "You've changed my life, Connor. And I do love you."

"That's good," Connor says, grinning. "Because you're stuck with me now."

His words serve to make a hollow dent in Ste's gut, and he fights to keep the smile on his face.

There's a knock on the door, and Conner's calling, "Come in," before Ste can move away from him, desperate now to be anywhere but draped over Connor when that door opens.

Only it's too late, and Brendan stands there in the doorway, looking at them both sandwiched together. Ste wonders if Connor recognises that look in Brendan's eyes like he does, reads the same emotion glinting there.

"Uh…I'm just going out. I'll be gone for the rest of the day."

"You're coming to the thing tonight at the Dog, aren't you?" Connor asks, still sweeping his hand through Ste's hair. "I've got tickets."

"Yeah…yeah." He clears his throat, and he looks away from them. "I'll be back before then," he says, and he doesn't bid them goodbye before leaving.

It's New Year's Eve, and there's a party going on at the pub later, and Ste doesn't feel at all like celebrating.

"These past few months have gone so quickly," he mumbles quietly, almost to himself. "It's a new year tonight."

Connor tilts Ste's face up, makes him look at him. "You know they say the person you kiss at midnight is the person you'll be kissing for the rest of the year."

And all Ste can do now is brush everything aside, and give Connor this. "Then you best come find me and snog my face off."

"Gladly," Connor says with a grin, pulling Ste in for a kiss.

Connor goes into work late that afternoon for a couple of hours, and the weight of despondency has Ste choosing to take a nap rather than face the day alone. When he wakes up it's dark outside, and he climbs out of bed, feeling sluggish. He goes to the bathroom but the door's locked, and the shower's running, and he knows Connor's not here so it must be Brendan. He doesn't know what to do, where to go. Into the bedroom again to hide; into the kitchen to act normal.

He doesn't get chance to do anything. The shower shuts off, and someone's nailed his feet to the floor, because he can't move away from this door.

He's standing there stupidly when Brendan comes out, a towel hung low on his hips, his skin damp and flushed.

Ste hasn't before seen him without clothes. Never really had a look at his body, the cut of his muscles, the hair that spreads over his chest, trails down his tummy, a line dipping into the towel below his navel. He stands there and stares, and Brendan stands there and lets him, and he's mesmerised, blood rushing through his veins, white noise echoing through his head.

He doesn't snap out of it until Brendan takes a step forward, and he takes a step back, and he stammers out, "I didn't know you were back."

"You were asleep," Brendan says. He gives Ste a look that travels the full length of his body. "Are you gonna get ready to go to this thing?"

Ste nods. His mouth has run uncomfortably dry. "Connor's meeting us there. He had to go to work."

Brendan doesn't have anything to say to that. He brushes past Ste, looking down into his eyes and his mouth as he passes, the heat and exposure of him washing over Ste and making his breath hitch.

He goes and gets his own shower, and then he dresses, and feels he should probably have something to eat before going out drinking but he doesn't want to, doesn't have the stomach for it.

They don't speak as they leave together and step out into the cold, no words exchanged until they start walking in the soft fall of snow, Brendan glancing at him out the side of his eye and murmuring, "You look nice."

Ste blushes red, and he mutters, "So do you," in response, and that's it for conversation for a long while.

They separate when they arrive at the pub, Ste heading for one end of the bar and Brendan the other, dozens of people between them. The place is packed already, and there's a makeshift dance floor set up in front of a DJ's booth, scantily clad women giving it their best.

Ste drinks, and then he drinks, and he waits for Connor, and he burns under the weight of Brendan's gaze from across the room. The room gets louder around him, midnight fast approaching, partygoers excited to ring in a new year, drinking their way through the lead up to the countdown. There's half an hour left of this year, and Ste spends it drinking steadily, his stomach empty of food, filling up with vodka.

He gets drunk enough to stumble onto the dance floor, and he can _still_ feel Brendan's gaze on him and it infuriates him, that Brendan can pin him so easily, work his way into Ste's veins and mind and the warm corners of his chest. He dances, and he's wasted, and there are hands on him, a body pressing against him from behind, and he pushes back into it, lets those hands roam over his chest, pays attention to nothing and no one other than his buzz of intoxication and this body he's grinding against. Until the body's suddenly ripped away from him, and Brendan's there snarling, telling the faceless person to get out of here, and then he's rounding on Ste with absolute, gut-wrenching rage in his eyes.

"What d'you think you're doing?" he growls at him, and Ste's not intimidated, doesn't care how furious this man is.

He's got enough anger in him for the both of them.

"What d'you think _you're_ doing?" he shouts, and he shoves Brendan. Brendan shoves back, then fists his hands in Ste's shirt, tugs him close.

"You're meant to be a married man," he snarls, "and you're here climbing over some other guy."

"I was just dancing!" Ste yells into his face, and Brendan looks at him in disgust, pushes him away, storms towards the door.

Ste's on his heels the whole time. "What's the matter," he asks viciously as he follows Brendan out into the cold. "Are you jealous?"

Brendan doesn't stop, keeps marching on, his whole body stiff with tension. "Don't push me, Steven."

"No, come on," Ste says, trying to grab at Brendan, make him stop. Brendan shakes him off every time, determined in his mission to get away. "Maybe we need to get it out there," he pushes desperately. "Talk about this thing."

"There is no thing."

"Oh don't even try that! Connor's not here right now so you don't have to lie." He comes to a stop, and he watches Brendan walk away, and he bellows, "I know you want me, Brendan!"

Brendan freezes, and Ste's breath catches in his throat, and an endless moment extends before him as he waits for something to happen.

Then Brendan turns, and he's coming towards him, and he's suddenly in Ste's face. And before Ste can think or breathe or react, Brendan grabs him and flings him into a doorway, crowds in until he's pressed so close they're almost one body, and his breath is hot on Ste's face when he whispers, "This wasn't supposed to happen."

There's the thunderous roar of raised voices from the pub behind them, the stamp of feet and the clap of hands, the countdown, _ten, nine, eight…_

Ste's heart's in his throat, and Brendan's face is the picture of painful desperation, his eyes dark and burning and his breath stuttering over Ste's face—

…_three, two, one…_

The fireworks tearing through the night, the screams from the pub behind him, the cheers and the clapping and the celebration, the explosion of noise all around him—none of it comes close to the tidal wave of exhilaration that rockets through Ste's system in the moment Brendan's mouth crashes down on his, and he pushes up into it, and simultaneous groans punch out of them as they both go in with everything they have and grab at each other, and devour each other, and the thought pierces through Ste's brain—_the person you kiss at midnight is the person you'll be kissing for the rest of the year._ He opens his mouth wider to Brendan's tongue and sucks the air from his lungs, collapses further back into this corner, dragging Brendan with him, trying to get him closer, closer—

Brendan pulls away suddenly, making Ste whimper, and he tips their foreheads together, breathes hot, panting breaths against Ste's lips.

"Get out of here," he chokes out, eyes squeezed shut. "Get out of my face before I do something we'll both regret."

Then he grabs Ste and pushes him out of the doorway, and he scrubs a hand over his face, and he walks away.

Ste goes home.

Brendan doesn't.

::: :::

**Nine**

"Babe. Babe."

Ste wakes up suddenly, pain lancing through his head and making him groan. There's a hand shaking him, and he peels his eyes open, comes face to face with Connor and the living room spinning around him.

He's on the couch. He doesn't even remember coming through the front door.

"God, I'm sorry," Connor wails as soon as he sees Ste's awake, and then he's gathering him in his arms and hugging the life out of him. "Are you okay?"

"What…? Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I tried calling last night but I had no signal," Connor explains, leaning back to look Ste in the face, "and I couldn't get through the traffic with all the snow. Had to go back to the office and stay there. You must've been going out of your mind with worry."

And suddenly Ste remembers, all of it, every detail crashing into his mind and making his stomach lurch.

He realises, with a hot sweep of guilt, that he never even noticed the lack of Connor last night, not when his every thought and movement had been consumed by Brendan.

"Uh… Yeah, yeah, I was," he says awkwardly, nodding, trying to look relieved and concerned. "I'm glad you're safe."

"I'll make it up to you today, though," Connor promises, hugging him again.

It's when he's nestled in Connor's arms, surrounded by Connor's apology and affection, that he asks, "Is Brendan back?"

"You didn't come home with him last night?"

"No." Ste closes his eyes, presses his face into Connor's shoulder. Feels like if he looks out at the world, he'll have to face the power of emotion filling him, emotion that has nothing to do with the man currently smothering him half to death. "He went off somewhere."

"Typical Brendan," Connor says with a laugh. "But no, he's not here. Probably waking up in some stranger's bed knowing him."

Ste swallows the rise of acid in his throat.

::: :::

He doesn't see Brendan again until the following day. He's at work, and Doug's halfway through telling him what he got up to over the holidays, and he looks out the window just in time to catch Brendan walking past.

He rushes to the door, leaves Doug hanging, doesn't really know what he's going to say to Brendan, only knowing that he has to see him.

But he freezes in the doorway, because Brendan's otherwise occupied. He's talking to John Paul McQueen outside Price Slice, and he's standing close to him like he does with Ste, and whatever he's murmuring seems to be doing the trick because John Paul's eyelids flutter, and he nods, and then Brendan pulls out his phone, types out something as John Paul speaks.

He doesn't know how long he stands there watching but eventually John Paul walks away, shooting Brendan a lingering, flirty smile as he does so, and then Brendan turns as if sensing Ste, meets his eye across the way.

Ste wonders if Brendan was aware of him all through that exchange.

He leaves the shop to approach Brendan, and Brendan walks away from Price Slice to meet him in the middle, and they stop within feet of each other like something out of the Wild West.

It's ridiculous, and Ste's hands are shaking.

"Hiya," he tries.

"Steven."

Ste swallows. "Where've you been?"

"Here and there."

"Connor's gonna start wondering."

"He knows what I'm like," Brendan says. "Me going missing for a few days is nothing new to him."

Ste nods, and he licks his lips, and he wishes more than anything that Brendan would give something away here, a look or a gleam in his eye or _something._ "Were you…were you taking John Paul's number?"

"Yes." There's a hesitation before he adds, "We're gonna make some plans."

"What, like a drink or something?" Ste's gut is twisting with displeasure, his vision narrowing to Brendan's face, seeing nothing but him, and the complete blankness of his eyes.

Brendan's smile is dirty and full of innuendo and completely, desperately fake. "Probably not those kind of plans."

"Don't." The word slips out of Ste before he has chance to consider it.

Something flashes on Brendan's face then, a hint of the truth within. "Don't what? Sleep with that kid?"

Ste swallows, steps forward a little so he can lower his voice. "Don't sleep with anyone."

Brendan looks as though he has a thousand thoughts racing through his head, none of them giving him satisfaction. "A man has needs, Steven."

"I know, but… You're leaving in a few days, aren't you? And I won't…I won't have to know about it."

"In the meantime," Brendan says slowly, the expression on his face suggesting he can't believe what he's hearing, "I just watch you marry someone else."

"I know it's not fair…"

"Not fair? Do you even realise what you're asking of me here?"

"Brendan, please…" He takes Brendan by the arm and pulls him into the alley. For some reason, Brendan doesn't resist, and it gives Ste hope. "This…this thing," he says, voice low and private. He's got his eyes fixed on Brendan's chest rather than look at his face for his reaction. "I don't know what it is, and I don't know what I'm doing, and I'm marrying your best friend in a few days. I just…" He looks into Brendan's eyes then, and he takes a breath of courage. "All I know is I can't stand the thought of you with someone else and I know I'm being completely unreasonable, but I…"

"Do you love him?" Brendan cuts in, and Ste's stomach flips over painfully. "Think about it, Steven. Because if you do, even a little bit, you'll walk away from me right now." He leans in close, drops his voice to barely more than a whisper. "There's only so far you can push a man before he breaks."

"He's given me so much," Ste says, squirming. The argument sounds weak even to his own ears.

"That's not an answer."

"It's not like I can win either way, is it? I marry him and you walk out of my life, or I don't marry him and you choose your oldest friendship over this."

Brendan fixes him with a stern look. "Don't try to make decisions for me."

"Tell me I'm wrong then," Ste says, and he knows he's begging, gets his hand on the collar of Brendan's shirt, pulls on it. "Tell me you'd throw away what you've had with him all these years. For _me_. You don't believe in real love, remember? How do I even…"

"Walk away, Steven," Brendan warns.

And Ste should, he really should. What he does, instead, is step in closer.

"I don't want to."

"Then let me make this easy for us both."

Before Ste can blink, can come to his senses, can do anything other than hold his breath and wait for Brendan to make a move for them both, Brendan's pulling away from him, and he's gone.

But this time Ste's not having it.

"Doug," he says, poking his head into the deli. "I'm going on my lunch. I'll be back soon."

Then he goes to the flat, determination pushing him forward, although determination for _what_, he doesn't yet know. All he wants is to get something real out of Brendan, stop having him walk away, each time leaving Ste that little bit more confused.

He finds Brendan in his bedroom, and he's packing.

The sight of it makes Ste feel sick.

"Are you leaving?"

Brendan laughs under his breath, a bitter, desolate sound. "I can't watch it," he says, leaning over the open suitcase on his bed, carefully laying folded trousers inside it.

"Connor's gonna be upset."

"He'll get over it. I'm doing him a favour."

Ste steps into the room, and he approaches Brendan from behind, and he puts a hand on Brendan's shoulder that makes Brendan freeze in his movements, suspended in motion.

"I was meant to meet you that night all those months ago," Ste says, finally, those words he's had building within him for days, weeks. As soon as they're out he feels free, light, buoyed by the weightlessness of honesty and relief.

And it's like his words snap something within Brendan because he turns suddenly, and he pushes Ste up against the wardrobe, and Ste might be winded with the impact but the thrill shocking through his veins keeps him upright and focused on the blaze raging in Brendan's eyes now.

"Don't think I haven't been able to get that thought out of my head, Steven." He's got his teeth bared, and his forearm pinned across Ste's chest like he's fighting him. "But you met him instead," he hisses, "and now you're marrying him."

"You can't leave."

"What other choice do I have?"

Ste wants to say _this one, you could choose this one_, but that means making a decision he's in no position to make, choosing a path that doesn't just affect him, and Brendan—but also Amy, Doug, the future of them all.

Letting Brendan in like this, like he so badly wants to, means the end of everything else. Weighing Brendan up against the rest of everything is not something he can do standing here, pressed against a wardrobe, the fierceness in Brendan's eyes so distracting.

Fortunately he's saved from stepping into that landmine now by the front door banging shut, and Brendan huffs a breath against his face that's pure frustration before letting him go, stepping back.

"What's going on here?" Connor asks, stopping in the doorway and frowning at the open suitcase on the bed.

Ste peels himself away from the wardrobe, tries to look normal even as Brendan keeps his back to them both. "I was just helping Brendan get started on his packing."

Connor gives an awkward laugh. "Few days to go yet, mate."

"I know," Brendan murmurs. His voice sounds hollow, flattened. "But I'll be leaving straight after the wedding, so I need to start getting things sorted now."

Connor seems to accept that excuse without question, and he's sad about it. Goes through the whole spiel of wishing Brendan could stick around, how he misses him, how much of a good time he's had catching up with him. Brendan nods and tries to smile and Ste leaves them to it, goes to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

His whole body floods with relief when Brendan heads out ten minutes later, leaving all his belongings behind.

::: :::

**Ten**

"Are you going to talk to me or keep having a staring contest with that wall?"

Ste blinks over at Amy. "What?"

"Well you come here for a visit and you've barely said a word."

"Sorry, I just…" He runs his fingers over the ancient upholstery of her sofa. "Lot on my mind."

"Is it the wedding?"

"I don't know." He looks at her, biting his lip. "Do you think I'm doing the right thing?"

"I know I wasn't sure of him at first," she says slowly, after giving it a moment's thought, "but I really do think he loves you, Ste."

"You're just saying that because he gave you a load of money."

"No…" She smiles. "He's been coming round here."

"What?"

"Last few weeks. He's been coming here, having tea with me. We've been talking."

Ste sits up straight. There's an undercurrent of buzzing in his ear, the white noise of disbelief. "About what?"

"You, mostly. Asking me everything about you. But really I think he just wants to get to know me. He knows how important we are to each other." She reaches over, gives his leg a squeeze. "He's a good man, Ste. And he's trying."

He deflates at that. It's half his problem right now. "I know."

She considers him for a long while, brows drawn. "But if this isn't what you want," she says eventually, voice lower now, "if you're not absolutely sure, then you can't go through with."

It's not an option he can even begin to risk thinking about, especially when he has no idea if there's anything waiting for him on the other side.

"I'd lose everything."

"We'd make it work again, you and me. Just like we did before." She squeezes his leg again. "Financial security isn't a reason to marry someone, Ste. Love is. You have to love that man more than any other person in the world, or you'll never be happy."

"I do love him," Ste says, and he means it, but what if it's not enough? Then what? He doesn't know where that leaves him.

"Then that's all that matters," Amy says, taking his answer at face value. "It's natural to get cold feet, you know."

Ste so wishes it could be that, that the only reason he's so full of confusion is because he's young, and he's about to get married, and it scares him.

But he's not scared of marrying Connor, not really. He's scared of what will happen if he doesn't.

There are no moments alone with Brendan over the next couple of days, and Ste gets the time to drain his mind and focus on the wedding, on the frenzy of final preparations. And just when he thinks he's got a handle on it, that he can choose the music and finalise the seating plan without wanting to throw up or panic or both, Connor drops the bombshell on him.

He's going away for the night. The whole night.

"I've just got this thing in Liverpool I have to deal with."

Ste tries to stay calm. "It's two days before our wedding, Connor."

"I know, and I'm sorry. But after this I'm all yours for the next couple of weeks."

"But I'm not gonna see you until we're standing up there getting married. You'll be gone tonight and I'm staying at Tony's tomorrow…"

"But think how much sweeter it'll be after these two days apart." Connor kisses him, and he grins, and he adds with a note of glee, "You'll be gagging to marry me, if only to get to the wedding night."

Ste doesn't share his excitement; all he feels is the rising threat of panic, because a night without Connor doesn't mean a night alone.

"What about Brendan?"

"I've asked him to stick around tonight to help you with the wedding favours. Two hundred of those things on your own would make you crazy by the end of it."

"That was supposed to be you and me," Ste says, almost desperate now, clinging to the front of Connor's shirt like a child holding on to a security blanket.

"I really am sorry, babe. But I'm not gonna leave your side for the next two weeks, I promise you, okay?"

It's no consolation, and there's an energy thrumming in him later that night, waiting for the moment Brendan comes in. He's watching the clock, and he can't tell if he's terrified or excited, and he's so worked up by the thrill of it all that when Brendan finally does come in, late and without explanation, Ste's too on edge to act nonchalant.

He watches from his place stood by the table as Brendan drops his keys and wallet onto the breakfast bar, has his fingers gripped around the top of a chair, knuckles white and aching.

Brendan takes a few steps over to him, looks him over. Whatever he sees makes his eyes darken. "Connor left already?"

"Yeah." His voice is breathy. "We're meant to be doing this tonight," he adds, nodding at the two hundred organza bags on the table, waiting to be filled with engraved gemstones.

Brendan gives the bags the barest of cursory glances. "I'm not helping you with that."

"But Connor said—"

"I know what Connor said," Brendan says, snaps almost. He's got his hands curled into fists. "But I'm not helping you put together your goddamn wedding favours. I don't want anything to do with it."

Ste pushes away from the chair he was leaning against, charges up into Brendan's space, breath heaving through his chest and making it rattle. "What's your problem? It's just putting stones in bloody bags!"

"It's what it represents."

"Which is?"

"This joke of a wedding," Brendan spits.

"It's _not_ a joke." He's sick of hearing it, of Brendan making him feel bad for believing in love and marriage and commitment. Marrying Connor is not a joke.

The joke is planning on marrying Connor while he's standing here with his whole body burning for Brendan, and Brendan's looking at him like he hates him and he's starved for him and he wants to tear him apart and hold him together and just—Ste _can't_ with this whole thing anymore.

"Isn't it? Not so long ago you were stood out there with your tongue down my throat."

"I shouldn't have… I'm getting married—"

Brendan lets out a growl suddenly, and he scrubs both hands over his face before pinning Ste with violent, blazing eyes. "I swear if I hear that one more time—"

"Well it's the truth! In two days I'm committing myself to Connor for the rest of my life." He's saying anything that comes into his head, doesn't care if he's making any sense, wants to push Brendan, and push him, and see how much of this is real. "None of this matters anymore."

"Is that what you think?"

"It's what I have to think."

"You're a fucking idiot," Brendan says, and for the second time this week Ste finds himself pressed up against a wall, next to the kitchen this time, and Brendan's breathing heat and fury and frustration into his face. "Feel that?" he asks, pressing a hand against Ste's chest, branding him with it. "Feel how hard that's beating? When have you ever felt that with Connor?"

Ste swallows, and he breathes in a shuddery breath, because he knew all this before Brendan ever showed up on the scene, always knew there was this _thing _missing between him and Connor, something he and Brendan have in abundance. "I love him," he insists, but it's becoming harder and harder to cling on to that barrier.

"I'm not talking about love," Brendan says, pressing in closer, dragging his hand up Ste's chest to hold the side of his neck. "I'm talking about _want_. Your heart's racing for me, your whole body's burning up. Right now you can't think about anything except what it feels like to be this close to me."

There's no point denying any of it. Brendan's standing too close—he'll only see the lie in his eyes. "Lust doesn't get you anywhere in life."

"You're going to spend the rest of your life with a man who makes you vaguely happy."

"No, I'm spending the rest of my life with a man who loves me. Maybe he doesn't turn me on as much as he could, but it's enough, and he loves me. You—you would never love me."

A flash of pure anger crosses Brendan's face. "You don't know _anything_."

Everything freezes, the whole world around them, stuck in this moment of staring at each other, and heaving breaths, and Brendan's eyes on fire. And Ste's burning up from the inside, everything within him screaming out for this man he can't have, but who he wants so desperately he's tearing up with it.

And then Brendan makes a low noise of urgency deep in his throat and comes at him like an attack, a rough slant of his mouth over Ste's and going in with his tongue before Ste can think, can react, can do nothing but groan a high, keening whine and take it, and kiss him, and give it all back.

He tears his mouth away not ten seconds into it, gasping, his head smacking back against the wall behind him.

"No—"

"Shut up," Brendan hisses, and he presses in close, thighs and hips and chest, and Ste can feel the hardness of him, and the agonising need of him, as he gets his hands on Ste's face and drags his thumbs over Ste's cheekbones and tips his head up to look at him, see him. "Don't think. Just don't start thinking."

And then he's kissing him again, and it all comes together at once deep within Ste like an explosion—how much he wants him, how much he's been craving him all these weeks, the pressure he's kept himself under to stay away, to not think about it.

He lets it all wash away in a euphoric rush of desire, and he gives in.

Brendan feels it, the moment Ste gives in; he groans out a noise that sounds like the heavy weight of relief, and he deepens the kiss, and he claws his hands down Ste's neck and his chest to his waist, gets beneath his top and presses his hands to bare skin, flat on the small of his back, uses it to pull Ste in against him. Ste can't think; his head's swimming with lust and desire and want, and his heart's hammering painfully against his ribs, and he wants this man like he's never wanted anything in his life, and he needs him, right now, no more barriers or thinking about what's _right_.

Because right now, in this moment, this feels right. This feels like the best decision he's ever made.

He breaks the kiss, and he's panting, and his hands start working in a frenzy to get the buttons of Brendan's shirt open; and then Brendan's helping him, their fingers stumbling over each other as they rush to open the shirt and then Brendan's entire torso is exposed to him and he finally gets his fingers in that hair, and he drags his nails over skin, and his breath is caught in his throat as he goes for Brendan's belt and tugs it open. He stops for a moment to look at him but Brendan doesn't give him long: gets his hand on the back of his neck and pulls him in for another biting, devouring kiss, yanking him away from the wall in one sudden movement and turning him until the edge of the breakfast bar is pressed against his back, and he's got a mouthful of Brendan's tongue, and his elbow knocks against the fruit bowl as he tries to regain his balance, sending it flying, but he doesn't care, because Brendan's pulling his top off and over his head now, and he's splaying his huge hands over the expanse of Ste's ribs, and he's looking at him like wants to consume him.

He gets a moment to breathe, and then Brendan's spinning him around and pushing him down over the breakfast bar, his bare chest pressing against tile, fingers gripping the edge of the surface like a lifeline.

Brendan yanks his trousers and boxers around his thighs, completely unceremoniously, and then he drags his hand around Ste's thigh to his front, cups his balls and then pulls up over his dick, fisting him and slicking his precome over the head as he leans down, a wall of heat over Ste's back, presses an open-mouthed, wet kiss to the back of his neck.

Ste can barely breathe with it, and he squeezes his eyes shut, drops his forehead to the tile, listens with his heart suspended in his throat as Brendan tugs open his own trousers, hand still working over Ste's dick, and Ste says in a rush of urgency, "We need lube."

"We're not stopping for lube," Brendan growls, then he releases Ste's dick, and he pulls away from Ste's back, and the next thing he knows Brendan's on his knees behind him, and there's a tongue dragging over his hole.

His whole body spasms at the contact, pleasure flooding him as Brendan works his tongue over his hole, slicks it up with saliva and pushes against the muscle, trying to gain entry. Ste moans, and he tries to ease all the tension in his body so Brendan can get inside, focuses on the tongue soaking his hole and the hands smoothing up his thighs and then suddenly, gloriously, Brendan pushes through the muscle and he's inside, slicking him up, groaning against Ste's hole and making it twitch against the overwhelming pleasure of it.

He's not had this done to him in so long he's almost forgotten how incredible it feels, his nerves stimulated by wet, warm suction and slick, the relentless attack against the rim, Brendan's hot breath and saliva coating him, covering him, making him whine and moan and roll his hips back, trying to get more, deeper, even as Brendan assaults his hole like he can't get enough, never wants to stop.

He does it until Ste's whole body is melting around his tongue, until he's boneless and trembling and moaning pitiful whines he can't seem to contain, until sweat's coating his skin and he's seeing nothing but stars in his eyes and everything in the world has shrunk down and zeroed in on this one point of pleasure, of Brendan's tongue slicking deep in his hole, groaning against him, building pleasure in Ste that's shooting through his veins and settling in his gut and he needs more now, needs more of Brendan.

"Please—" he breathes out, doesn't know if Brendan heard him but he pulls his mouth away anyway, gets to his feet and trails his hand between Ste's cheeks and presses one unyielding finger right through the muscle and deep into him.

Ste jolts and cries out, pushes back against the pressure, searches around desperately when Brendan mutters, "My wallet," at him, finds the wallet on the edge of the breakfast bar in front of him and opens it, digs around for the condom he knows Brendan wants.

His hands clench around the wallet as Brendan adds a second finger, works them both in and out without pause, a punishing rhythm that has Ste panting and almost sobbing with the pleasure of it; his other hand is on the small of Ste's back, holding him in place, because Ste keeps trying to fuck back onto those fingers but Brendan's not letting him. He's setting his own pace, and he's adding a third finger, and Ste's going to come right _now_ if this doesn't stop, can feel it building in his gut, his toes curling, his vision darkening at the edges.

"C'mon," Brendan says, and his hand leaves the small of Ste's back to reach over his shoulder, trying to get the condom.

Ste gives it to him blindly, can't pay attention to anything other than those fingers pushing in and out of his body; they're not going near his prostate and he knows it's deliberate, Brendan not wanting him to come yet, but he's desperate for it, and he tries to angle his hips so Brendan's fingers will come down on it. Only Brendan's wise to his game and he removes his fingers, and Ste sobs a moan into the tile under his face.

There's a moment of stillness and silence, the only sounds Ste's own breath thundering in his ears and the rustle of the condom wrapper, and then he closes his eyes at the feel of Brendan's cock pressing against his hole, breathes out a long, easing breath as Brendan settles his hands on his hips, and then luxuriates in the sound of Brendan's uncontained groan as he pushes home.

There's no going back now, not with Brendan inside him, the two of them connected in the purest, most carnal way.

He chokes out a sob at the emotion that swells within his chest so suddenly, and then Brendan comes down over his back, wraps his arms around Ste's chest and hooks his hands up over the front of Ste's shoulders for leverage, or for closeness, and then pulls his hips back before sliding back in, long and slow and deep.

He's big, and he's so hard, and Ste can't ever remember feeling like this. He can't help the, _"God,"_ that comes out on a breath and Brendan tightens his hands on his shoulders in response, presses his mouth against the back of his neck, then lifts up and away so he can get his hands on Ste's hips and start fucking him.

It doesn't last long. They're both too wrung out and worked up for stamina, and Ste can't believe he's here in this moment, draped over the breakfast bar in the kitchen he shares with his fiancé, being fucked so fiercely and thoroughly by Brendan Brady. He expects any moment for the horror to crash in but it doesn't; all he feels is the electric heat of pleasure in his veins, the bruising rhythm of Brendan fucking into his hole, and the hot swell of emotion in his chest that tells him this isn't a mistake, this can't be wrong.

He reaches behind him desperately for a part of Brendan to hold on to, meets his thigh and grips it, pulls him in deeper, the sobs punching out of him sounding almost like begging. It feels unbelievably good, his entire body awash with sensation, and when Brendan reaches around to start stroking his dick in a matching rhythm, he arches his body and keens, and digs his nails into Brendan's thigh, and holds on for dear life as Brendan hammers into him so viciously he feels almost bruised on the inside, and milks pleasure from his dick so skilfully it's an exquisite ache. And suddenly it all pulls together in his gut and his body locks up, muscles and bones seizing, suspended in that moment of pure, white-hot ecstasy, before he chokes out a cry, release thundering through his veins, making him shudder violently around Brendan's dick, the sound of Brendan groaning out his own orgasm chasing him into oblivion.

He doesn't know how long he stays there, draped across the breakfast bar, Brendan slumped over his back now, still buried inside him. They're breathing together, coming down from the high, and Brendan's arm snakes out, dragging his palm along the length of Ste's outstretched arm to his hand, holds it in a tight grip as if trying to anchor him back to reality.

Ste sighs and peels his eyes open, stares blankly at the kitchen, the draining board full of the crockery he'd picked out with Connor one Sunday afternoon, the picture on the wall Connor's mother gave them, the washing machine still full of his and Connor's clothes. He doesn't move, but awareness is creeping back in, bringing with it the icy claws of guilt. "What have we just done?"

Brendan huffs against the skin of his back, turns his head to press his mouth to Ste's shoulder. "What we had to."

That much is true. This tension's been building for so long that it had to come to a head eventually. Although not like this; it shouldn't have been like this.

"God," he groans. "I am so fucked." And yet he still doesn't move, even if the hard edges of this breakfast bar are digging into him, the chill of the tiles against his chest making him uncomfortable.

Brendan's still buried inside him, and he doesn't want to move, and Brendan doesn't seem inclined to either. Brendan laughs, low and dirty.

"That's the idea."

Ste can't help huffing his own laugh at that, jabbing his spare elbow back in an attempt to catch Brendan with it. "No, you perv—I mean. This whole situation." He sighs again, the happy high of his euphoria dwindling away, leaving behind emptiness, and nothing. "Marrying Connor and I've just slept with his best man."

They fall into silence, and Ste wonders what Brendan's thinking. If he's feeling guilt, thinking of his best friend. If he's regretting this, in the way Ste should be, but isn't.

"Well," Brendan says eventually, and then he's standing up and peeling away, his cock slipping out, leaving Ste feeling the loss. "If we're gonna fuck up, then we might as well do it with style."

Ste blinks, and he stands up as well, tugs up the trousers that are still bunched around his thighs. "What d'you mean?" he asks, and he turns to face Brendan, the breath knocking out of him at the sight of him. Flushed skin, glazed eyes, swollen lips, hair in total disarray. He looks like the very definition of fucked out and, god, Ste wants him, still, even now.

"I mean…" Brendan smiles, trails a finger up Ste's chest to this throat, then cups the side of his jaw, thumb brushing over his bottom lip. "I'm not done with you yet." He dips in for a kiss and Ste lets him, their lips clinging as Brendan pulls away to add, "Let's go to bed."

A hot shock of excitement and desire pierces Ste's chest even as he frowns. "It's one thing getting caught in the moment and doing something stupid," he says, and then Brendan presses a soft kiss on his lips again, and then another, like he can't stop, can't get enough of him. When there's a pause long enough to speak, Ste says, "Going to bed together now is making a choice."

"I know," Brendan murmurs before going in for a deep, hungry kiss this time, stealing Ste's breath from his lungs. When he's finished, he pulls back and steps away and holds out his hand, his eyes dark and wanting. "You coming?"

Ste swallows away the guilt that's making him feel empty. Lets the look in Brendan's eyes fill the emptiness, the way he's just torn him apart at the seams and stitched him back together.

He takes Brendan's hand, and he follows him to bed.

This time it's slow. The urgency of before is gone, although the desperation for each other is still there. Brendan strips him of his remaining clothes, then removes his own, and they crawl into bed together, naked and kissing and clinging on.

They do nothing but kiss for so long that Ste's head swims with it, lost in this ocean of intimacy and the terrifying rise of emotion. He's feeling things he never expected, feels like he's being worshiped while Brendan kisses him and feels him and doesn't rush to fuck him, content to lay here and learn each other, the rise and valley of each other's bodies, the curve of muscle and the edge of bone, the taste of tongue and lips and the breathy sighs of pleasure. Brendan drags his hand through Ste's hair and over his jaw and down his side and his thigh, pulls him in so they're close, pressed together, a connection so intense Ste can't breathe and Brendan soothes him, kisses his cheeks and his eyelids and his brows, trails fingers over his tummy and his chest, glides a thumb over his collarbone.

He retrieves lube and a condom from the bedside drawer and he kisses Ste through the sensation of pushing lube into his hole, working him open again, stretching him with one finger, and then two, catching his prostate this time, as if pressing apology into him for purposely avoiding it earlier, sucking kisses into Ste's jaw as Ste arches up into the pleasure of it. Then he sits up and watches with what can only be described as pure adoration in his eyes as Ste rolls the condom on for him, getting his hands on Brendan's dick for the first time, stroking it and wringing pleasure from it and the adoration in Brendan's eyes turns to hunger. He presses Ste back down on the bed and settles between his thighs, Ste lifting his legs and wrapping them around his back, and then Brendan lifts Ste's arms above his head and pins both wrists to the pillow with one hand, uses his other to guide his dick to Ste's hole, pushes in, one long thrust that has them both groaning.

Ste stares up into Brendan's eyes as their hips start rocking together, and then Brendan dips down to kiss him, and their matching rhythm builds a wave of bliss within Ste that has him breathing into Brendan's mouth, their lips slack together. Brendan releases his wrists and hooks both hands under Ste's shoulders, pulls him in close, Ste clinging to Brendan's back and holding on as the rhythm picks up pace and Brendan's fucking into him now only it doesn't feel like fucking—it's purer than that, deeper, the emotion of it hitting Ste in the chest and making Brendan bury his face in Ste's neck.

They come together in a shuddering, burning rush of rapture that has them pressing and clinging close, breathing into each other's skin, not the moment for screaming and shouting, the carnal release of fucking. This is different, this is a higher breed of bliss, this is two men dragging pleasure from each other's bodies and saturating with it.

They kiss for a long time when it's over, and when Brendan lifts his face away, his eyes are dark and warm and seeing nothing but Ste, so many emotions swirling within them that Ste doesn't know how much of it is real, how much of it is the reflection of his own feelings.

He lifts a hand and trails fingers over Brendan's brow, whispers, "Everything's so messed up."

"For now," Brendan murmurs, then he turns his face to the palm Ste places on his cheek, kisses the skin there, nuzzles into it. "Things will work out in the end." He kisses Ste again, presses emotion into his mouth, then he rests his forehead against Ste's and tightens his arms around him, closes his eyes.

"You're not marrying him, Steven," he says

And all Ste can think to say, the only thing that makes sense, is: "I know."

::: :::

**Eleven**

Ste wakes up to a warm body wrapped all around him and he smiles without opening his eyes, snuggles in further, sighs in contentment as those arms tighten around him, pull him close.

Then he hears a shift of movement that doesn't come from the bed, and he opens his eyes, a sudden spike of dread piercing through his chest and sending shockwaves of panic throughout his entire body.

Connor's standing in the room, at the foot of the bed. His eyes as he gazes down at them both are staggeringly dead and empty.

"Connor—"

Connor turns and walks away, says nothing, and in Ste's haste to get out of bed he elbows Brendan in the chest, makes him grunt and sit up with a groan.

Ste doesn't care about any pain Brendan might be in. He's yanking on his tracksuit bottoms, grabs some random t-shirt off the chair in the corner of Brendan's room, calls, "Connor, wait! Shit!" as Brendan looks around in confusion, trying to figure out what the fuck's going on.

"He was here," Ste explains, his tone hollow. "He saw us."

All the colour in Brendan's face washes away in an instant and he's immediately climbing out of bed, naked and sleep-soft and representing everything that's wrong with this situation.

"I'll go."

"No," Ste says firmly. "I'll go. This is my mess." He tugs on the t-shirt and heads out of the room, Brendan calling after him.

It doesn't take Ste long to find Connor. This park is where he always comes when he needs a bit of peace, a moment to think. He's sat on the bench, his elbows on his knees, staring out at nothing until he hears Ste's arrival, and then he looks over at him, his eyes flashing with fury.

Ste's glad for it. Anything's better than that emptiness of before.

"Walk away from me, Ste."

"No," Ste says quietly. He doesn't try to sit. "We need to talk."

Connor looks at him with disgust. "Have you even showered? Or are you still covered in _him_?"

It makes Ste swallow with shame. Not only is he covered in the evidence of his time with Brendan, he's also wearing Brendan's clothes. He couldn't be less sensitive if he tried. His face burns.

"I'm sorry."

Connor huffs a bitter laugh, looks down at the ground, shakes his head. "How long's it been going on for?" he asks. "How long have you been fucking him in our home?"

"I haven't. I just. It was just last night." He takes another step closer. "We—there was an argument, and we got carried away." He wants to say it didn't mean anything, but he doesn't want to lie, not now.

There's a pause before Connor speaks again. "It didn't just come out of nowhere, though, did it? You don't just randomly decide to fuck your fiancé's best friend." His voice is harsh, vicious, cutting into Ste like a blade.

Ste thinks about walking away from it, but he doesn't deserve to. "No," he admits. "I don't know what to say."

"The truth would be good," Connor says, looking up at him, the fury in his eyes so intense it almost smothers the hint of plea Ste can read in his tone.

"Things have been…developing for a while." Ste wrings his hands together, crouches down in front of Connor, a metre or so away from him. Doesn't think Connor could handle him taking a seat beside him. "I'm attracted to him," he says quietly, looking down at Connor's feet so he doesn't have to see the reaction those words cause. "I shouldn't be, but—I can't help it."

"Everyone's attracted to him," Connor spits. "He's Brendan fucking Brady. But they don't all fall into bed with him two days before their wedding to someone else, so you're gonna have to do better than that."

Ste nods, takes a breath, tries to find some courage, the strength he needs to say this out loud.

"I have feelings for him."

"What?" Connor's blindsided by it. For all his talk of everyone's attraction to Brendan, the idea that Ste's connection with him could go further than that seems to have surprised the anger out of him.

"I'm sorry."

"Feelings as in…love?" He looks incredulous, face pulled into a grimace of disbelief. "Do you love him?"

"I…" There's a rush of something hot within Ste now at Connor's direct question, a panic that has nothing to do with this confrontation. "I'm just really confused right now. My head's a mess."

"You're an idiot, Ste," Connor says after a moment. Ste's not sure if he's imagining the edge of pity in his tone. "Do you honestly think he's ever going to love you back? The man doesn't know the meaning of the word."

It rings true within Ste, and he thinks back to his earlier conversations with Brendan, his absolute certainty that love is for fools.

"You're not the first, you know," Connor continues, almost viciously. "He's had a few boys like you over the years. Gets close to them, makes them fall for him. Then he gets bored, and he throws them away. Just like he'll do to you."

He pauses to let this sink in, and Ste can do nothing but swallow away the rising bile in his throat.

"I've given you everything. I've given you a home, a business—I'm even putting your goddamn best friend through college. What more do I need to do?"

"Nothing," he mumbles vaguely. He's barely even listening to him now. His head's swimming, his system rocked by the truth of Connor's words. He has no idea what he's supposed to do with this information, with what Connor's words are doing to his chest, his heart. "I was never after your money, Connor."

"What's he promised you?" Connor asks. "Not a fucking thing. He's already half packed to go to America. Already one foot out the door. And you're throwing all of this away for _that_?"

Ste wants to be sick, nausea filling his throat, churning his stomach. There's too much conflict in his head, a battle of emotions his frayed nerves can't cope with right now. "I don't know what I'm doing," he admits, and the words taste like acid in his mouth.

Connor sighs. "Well you need to figure it out," he says. "Because if you leave me standing up there in front of all those people tomorrow—"

Ste looks up at him sharply, surprise numbing the turmoil of Brendan. "You still want to marry me?"

Connor considers him, projecting nothing even close to love. Ste can't blame him. "We all make mistakes," he says levelly. "And I know what he's like, how he can get under your skin." Pain twists his features for an instant before clearing. "We can get through this," he says with deliberation, almost like he's talking himself into it. "As long as he never shows his face again."

"But he's your oldest friend." Ste can't handle it, being the cause of ending the friendship, having that responsibility on him, that blood on his hands. He'd rather walk away from them both.

But it seems Connor's already made his mind up. "He's nothing to me now," he says, his tone dark and painfully final. He gets up suddenly, and Ste's head's spinning with the abruptness of it all, how he can go from waking up warm and secure in Brendan's arms to this, his gut churning with confusion, his chest aching with knowing the ball's back in his court, somehow, when it makes no sense at all.

"I need to go home to change," Connor says. He gives Ste a look that makes him feel filthy. "And you need a shower. Come on."

He gives Ste no time or opportunity to clear his head enough to object. He marches home, and Ste follows him, and when they reach the apartment, Ste dreads walking inside. If Brendan's still in there, this nightmare will go from bad to worse and he has no idea, not fucking idea at all, what side he'll come out on.

But he needn't have worried. Connor makes a quick sweep of the apartment before coming back to Ste in the living room, his expression brutally triumphant. "He's gone."

The world falls away from beneath Ste's feet. "As in…?"

"Taken all his stuff, yeah." He smiles, the coldest smile Ste's ever seen. "I told you, this is what he does."

Ste walks away in a daze, all his feelings carefully locked away, restrained, unable to express anything with Connor around and suffocating for it. He goes into the bedroom, the bedroom he shares with his fiancé, opens a drawer for clean clothes.

Nestled under a pile of t-shirts is an envelope, and Ste's heart's in his throat as he pulls it out. He checks over his shoulder to ensure he's still alone and then opens it.

Within it is a stack of money, and a note that simply says, _You win._

He collapses on the edge of the bed, all the breath rushing out of him, something hot and agonizing clawing up his insides and making him want to scream. Because once upon a time he made Brendan a bet for a thousand pounds that he'll fall in love one day in the near future, a bet Brendan was so sure he would win. And here Ste sits with a handful of money, and a note in Brendan's handwriting conceding his victory.

Only it doesn't feel like victory at all.

A rush of anger and pain and confusion has him stuffing everything back into the envelope and his fingers brush against metal.

Sitting in the bottom of the envelope is Brendan's cross.

He hides everything back in the drawer, and he goes into the shower, and the hot water on his face masks his tears enough that he can pretend he's not falling apart at the seams, everything within him crushing under the weight of loss.

::: :::

**Twelve**

Ste stares at himself in the mirror. He looks good; refined. He looks like a man who's about to get married to a gentleman.

The hotel's full of guests, over two hundred of them. In less than half an hour, Ste will be standing before them all, all those strangers, and committing his life to Connor.

On what's supposed to be the happiest day of his life, he feels nothing but a hollow hole in his chest.

He tried calling Brendan all night, got nothing but voicemail. He didn't leave him any messages; had nothing to say. If Brendan wasn't answering, then clearly he didn't want to know.

Whatever it was between them, it's over.

Ste's left with this now: this wedding, this man, this marriage.

He can already see his life stretched out before him; a big, gaping expanse, forever unfilled.

He's empty, and he's got nothing to lose with this union.

"You don't look too happy for someone about to marry the love of his life."

Ste startles so much, the breath knocks out of him. He spins around, and Brendan's stood there, gazing at him, and right now he's the most beautiful sight Ste's ever laid his eyes on.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, fighting every instinct to rush forward and throw himself into Brendan's arms, beg him to take it all away.

Brendan steps forward, approaches him, slow and cautious. "I couldn't leave without making sure you knew you had another option here." He stops before Ste, ducks his head down to look Ste in the eye. "You don't have to do this, Steven."

There's a band of steel around Ste's chest, tightening, constricting him.

"I do. I'm already here." His voice holds a hint of mania. "This hotel's full of Connor's closest friends and family, waiting to watch me marry him. He's spent so much—"

"None of that matters," Brendan says, cutting him off swiftly, fiercely. "You have to make this decision for yourself. Not for him, and definitely not for me. For _you_. Do you understand?"

Ste's voice, when he speaks, is pitiful, weak. "I haven't got a choice."

"You've always got a choice. You don't love him," he says, and there's sudden fire in his eyes now, a burning passion. "You feel indebted to him." He takes Ste's face in his hands and forces their gazes to lock, forces Ste to confront this truth. "You love _me_, Steven."

Ste can't speak, can't breathe, can't get a single straight thought to settle in his head.

"I'll be in the club for the next hour," Brendan continues in the face of Ste's silence, "and then I'm leaving to catch my flight. It's up to you."

"The club…what club?"

"The one for sale in the village."

There's footsteps in the hall, heading for this room, and Brendan presses his forehead to Ste's for an instant, mutters, "I'll be waiting for you," before he releases him, stepping away.

Tony comes in, eyebrows lifting as he surveys the scene before him. "Brendan. Shouldn't you be off seeing to your own best man duties?"

"Yeah, sorry," Brendan says gruffly. "Just had to give a message to Steven here."

He shoots Ste a final look full of meaning, and then he leaves.

Tony looks at him in confusion. He's got two champagne glasses in his hands and Ste swipes one, downs it in one swallow, grabs the other and then collapses into a chair. His ears are ringing, and his heart's thundering, and he feels like he's made of glass—as if someone could push him over and he'd shatter into a million pieces.

"Ste—" Tony kneels down in front of him, his face a picture of concern.

Ste stares at him, and he knows he looks insane, his eyes wild and desperate. There's a war going on inside him, an agonising battle of emotions and instincts, and only one thing is coming to the forefront, one perfect image of clarity.

"I can't do this," he whispers.

Tony puts a hand on his knee. "Ste, come on."

Ste gets up suddenly, the champagne glass slipping from his fingers, that clarity building within him stretching, expanding, filling him with the crystal-clear certainty of what he must do. There's only one way to go here, and it's not down the aisle and into a marriage.

Before he even knows what he's doing, he's left the room, Tony calling after him. He ignores him, and he gets in the lift, and suddenly he's in front of Connor's room. He turns the door handle, a strange sensation of calm washing over him, and he steps inside.

Connor knows before he even opens his mouth. He stares at Ste in the mirror for an endless time, and then he turns to look at him, his eyes full of hurt and resignation. "He'll break your heart, Ste," he says, tone heavy and tired.

Right now Ste's heart is breaking for Connor. He feels like the worst kind of person; in a twisted way, he deserves to marry Connor, live the vague unhappiness of marriage with him, the not-quite-passion of the rest of their lives. He doesn't deserve what Brendan gives him, not when he's hurting Connor so much.

But Connor doesn't deserve _him_. He's worth so much more.

"That's my lesson to learn," Ste says, and he steps in closer. He doesn't try to touch Connor, but he looks him in the eye, faces up to what he's doing. "You're a good man, Connor," he insists, and he means it, so very much. "I want you to be happy. I'm sorry I couldn't be what you needed."

"I didn't need you to be anything." Connor's eyes are watering, and he grimaces as he tries to fight it. "I love you for who you are," he adds, a broken note to his tone that has Ste aching for him.

"I love you too." It sounds so weightless now, a consolation, but he does mean it. He's never doubted his feelings for Connor. "I really do."

Connor nods, wipes the back of his hand over his eyes. "Just not as much as you love him."

He's not going to deny it. Connor's entitled to the truth now.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I never wanted to hurt you."

Connor stares at him for a long, long moment, and Ste almost wants to hear him shout, bellow at him, tell him what a deplorable person he is.

But he doesn't. He turns his back, and he goes over to the dresser, and he sits down. Dignified. "Just go. I'll deal with all this."

Ste doesn't do him the disservice of staying any longer, witnessing his heartbreak. He leaves, and he shuts the door quietly behind himself, his heart heavy and his eyes itching with tears.

And as he slumps back against the opposite wall, the heavy weight of Brendan's cross jolts against his chest, beneath his shirt, and suddenly he's running, sprinting through corridors and down stairs, out into the snow, looking left and right up the street for a cab. There are wedding guests all around him, looking at him, muttering behind their hands; someone calls out to him, and there are footsteps approaching him from behind, but a cab pulls up before anyone can ask him what he's doing and he gasps, "Hollyoaks Village," to the driver, tells him to go, quick, before it's too late.

He makes it to the club and the door's unlocked, nothing inside but silence and emptiness. He charges up the stairs and bursts into the office like there's a fire behind him, half expecting to find Brendan not there, that he's already changed his mind.

But he is there, sitting in this office that's empty save for the chair he's in, the desk he's sat behind, and the sofa pressed against one wall. He looks up, startled, at Ste's dramatic entrance, and everything about his face says he can't believe it, that Ste's really here, with him.

Ste stands there breathless, his heart hammering out of his chest, staring at Brendan, who's staring back, frozen, waiting.

"Say it," Ste begs. "I need you to say it."

Brendan gets up very slowly, and he comes around the desk, and he approaches Ste, and he says without hesitation, his voice low and rich with sincerity, "I love you."

A breath rushes out of Ste, and his knees threaten to buckle, and he gets his hands fisted in the front of Brendan's shirt and he clings on.

Brendan brings his hands to Ste's face. They're trembling, and the touch is gentle and reverent against Ste's cheeks. "I love you, Steven," he says, softer this time, tremulous, thick with the emotion Ste feared he wasn't capable of.

"What about your life," Ste asks, "America—?"

Brendan pulls away from him, and Ste almost whimpers at the loss, hands reaching out for him. But he doesn't go far. He collects two thick stacks of documents off the desk and brings them to Ste. His hands are still shaking, and his eyes are swimming with moisture, and Ste can't believe this is happening.

"If I sign this," Brendan says, holding up the first pile of stapled documents, his voice cracking and straining, "I own this club. And if I sign this," he continues, holding up the second, "I move into that empty flat above your deli." He drops the documents onto the sofa beside them and gets Ste's face in his hands again, steps in close and looks at him as if he's looking at his entire world. "And if you're with me on this," he whispers, thumbs tracing over Ste's cheekbones, "I'm not going anywhere."

Ste's so full of emotion, of relief and happiness and love, he can't do anything but pull on Brendan's shirt to bring him in closer, feel his heat and breathe him in and get his head around the fact that this is it now, this is his life, Brendan's _his_.

"Do you really think you're ready to settle down?" he asks, because he has to be sure before he takes that final step, that leap of love and faith.

"Yes," says Brendan. "If you'll have me."

There's no longer an ounce of doubt left in Ste's mind. He leans up to him, drawn in like a magnet, and Brendan meets him in the middle. And they kiss, soft and slow and unhurried, because they have time now, all the time in the world, and Brendan's kissing him like he's worshipping him, like he will spend the rest of his life making Ste feel this beautiful rush of exhilaration.

"You know what we need to work out now," Brendan says an eternity later, looking down at him.

"How to build a relationship out of this craziness?"

"No," says Brendan. "What we're going to name this place."

Ste laughs, and Brendan gathers him up, hugs him to his chest like he never wants to let him go.

::: :::

**Epilogue**

Ste has an emotional goodbye with Connor when he goes to collect his things. Brendan isn't thrilled about Ste going there alone, isn't sure of Connor's temper, but Ste feels certain it's safe, he'll be fine.

Connor tells him he's moving to Liverpool, that the work is better there, and he gives Ste the deeds to the deli, says he put it in his name. They hug for a long time, and Ste reiterates his previous statements, that he's a good man, and he deserves someone truly special. Later he watches from inside the deli as Connor and Brendan have a discussion, and Connor puts a hand on Brendan's shoulder, says something that has Brendan nodding, his face very serious. They don't hug as they separate, but Brendan comes into the deli wearing a soft smile, and Ste gets the feeling everything will be okay in the end for them, that this isn't the complete end of their friendship.

He moves back into his flat with Amy the next day, feels an overwhelming sense of home as he puts his belongings down on his bed, looks around with warmth filling his chest, even as Amy bellows at him to go to the shop for milk because there's none for tea.

When Brendan's stuff ships over from America, Ste helps him move out of the hotel he's been staying in and into his new flat, and they make love on the floor in the middle of the living room, then on the stairs, and then twice in one of the bedrooms before they even think of opening any boxes.

"You know you can move in here whenever you like," Brendan tells him. "There's plenty of space."

"I know," Ste says, curling around Brendan's body, "but I'm happy with Amy for now. It's my home. Besides," he adds, smirking, "you haven't even taken me on an official first date yet."

Brendan takes him out that night, and after they make out in an empty doorway like old times, and then have quick, desperate sex in the car when they park by a river to watch the stars. And when Ste breathes, "I love you," into Brendan's neck, he feels it right down to his bones, every facet of the emotion filling him and swelling within his chest, heating through his veins. Brendan looks into Ste's face and says, "I love you too," and Ste can see everything he feels mirrored in Brendan's eyes, and he glows with it.


End file.
